


Flying Blind

by JessamyGriffith



Series: A Wing and a Prayer [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Dubious Consent, Eros and Psyche, Humor, M/M, Pining, Romance, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff's luck is infamous. He'd always known that. But what has he done to deserve being plonked into an arranged marriage to an immortal? Much less to some horrible, ancient, fiery monster he's not even allowed to see?</p>
<p>Eros is regretting the wager that netted him Martin for his spouse. After all, wooing a mortal ought to be simple for the god of love. He'd just never expected to compete with Martin's love of flying for his heart.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>AU version of Eros and Psyche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/gifts).



> What happens when your alpha-beta and you are capslocking about fairy tales and myths? About 90k words of fluffy indulgence based on the first part of the myth of Eros and Psyche.
> 
> This is non-canon compliant, though some episode references are used, notably Abu Dhabi and Qikiqtarjuak. And of course, it's an alternative universe, one where the ancient gods still exist and interact with humanity in that amusing way they have.
> 
> If anyone has questions or concerns about Martin's love life and/or pairings and want spoilers to find the will to go on reading, message me via Tumblr (jessamygriffin, but you'll need an account as I have anon turned off) or at my gmail of the same name.
> 
> **Hover over dates in order to see what it is in modern (non-Hellenion) terms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two gods walk into a pub...

 

 

 

 

[The 2nd day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

"Oh, sky and feathers, what _are_ you wearing?"

Eros looked up from his pub lunch in irritation. Peace, quiet and fried chips in the mortal realm was all he'd wanted, not this aggravation. A youth in jeans and a stylish leather jacket was looking down his nose at him in amused contempt. Eros shrugged a careless shoulder inside a comfortable jumper. "What, don’t you think this aspect suits me?"

Sharp green eyes ran over Eros. The young man snorted and sat himself at the picnic table without invitation. He plucked the sliced pickle from the plate and bit, leaning back as Eros swatted at him. His aspect flickered, a blinding shimmer that revealed his true self for a moment.

"Get hold of yourself," grumbled Eros. "And get your own pickle. _Yasou_ , Pothos, son of Zephyrus."

"The same, son of Nyx. What brings you... here?" The sharp featured face looked about the pub terrace, his expression speaking volumes.

"Summer’s warmth holds yet. I’m having a bite to eat. Relaxing. Experiencing the human condition. You've heard of it, I presume."

"Oh, don't lie to me, elder cousin," Pothos sighed. He signalled for the waitress, gave his order and admired her backside as she moved to help another customer. "Mm. I take it back. This place does have a certain country charm."

"Spare me. What are you doing here?"

Pothos lifted a shoulder. "Oh, much the same as you, I expect. It's the same old, same old. Looking for carnal company but hoping for a little entertainment as well." He tossed a small shoulder bag with sharpened metal points poking out the flap on the wooden planks of the table.

"Mischief-hunting, are we?" Eros' hand strayed to his quiver by his hip. To the eyes of mortals, it appeared as a battered leather briefcase. The arrows were mostly show, fulfilling mortal’s expectations, though potent. In truth, Eros could influence mortals by touch and focus of will.

"Of course. Anyway, I happened to be passing overhead. I saw the glow and said to myself, 'Why, surely that isn't old Eros sitting alone and miserable in a forsaken ale-hut in'... Where is this place?"

"Maidenhead, Berkshire."

Pothos rocked back with laughter. "Perfect! Though I won't count on finding any - rare as hen's teeth in these modern decadent times."

Eros sighed and took a sip of his cola. He wanted Pothos to bugger off  and leave him to his burger and chips but it was obvious his fellow _erotes_ was determined to plague him. "Good luck with that." His tone dripped with insincerity.

Pothos shot him a hard look. "Fortune doesn't come into it."

"If you say so. How's it going for you then, the starry-eyed lover business?"

Pothos' mouth twisted "Rotten. Oh, _you_ can laugh. But damn it, I am so bored with how they moon about! It's pathetic. I mean, my powers serve well enough getting them into bed, but who can stomach them afterwards? And if it’s not me they’re after, it’s some other poor mortal sod who just got in the way. Where's the fun in that? Skies, sometimes I wish I could just give it all up."

Eros lifted a brow. "I don’t see how you can escape being the God of Longing. What of it?"

Pothos grimaced. "There were a few too many bolt-grazed that were making my life hell. Complete stalkers. Had to flee Europa for a while. Still, when I'm not the prey they're after, it's good for a laugh at times."

"Your sentiment is truly touching," murmured Eros. "By the way - what have you there?" He tilted a head at his cousin's satchel but was careful not to reach for it.

Pothos' face lightened. "Something new! Look." He opened the flap and drew out a small handheld crossbow. "I saw it online and had Hephaestus craft me a similar one. Only good for short-range shots, but it’s quite accurate." He lifted a feathered bolt for inspection, grinning. "Cunning, isn't it?"

"Mm, rather nice." Eros admired the weapons with his deeper vision. From the corner of his eye he saw a man with a self-important moustache glaring at them from another table. He glanced back to the shaft his cousin held aloft and looked again with mortal eyes. "Oh, for Nyx's sake! Put it away."

Pothos laughed. He twirled the purple dildo like a baton and passed it between his hands in a magician's sleight of hand before making it reappear. He thumped the not-dildo on the table. "Don't be such a prig."

"Very clever, that little trick. But no more, please, we're being observed."

"Pfft. Don't worry, I won't out you. Though I seem to have anyway, if the evil glare yon moustachioed mortal is giving us means anything." Pothos seemed tickled. "Maybe he thinks I'm your rent-boy. You do look a bit of an old satyr at the moment." Pothos lowered his lids and peeked at Eros through his lashes in a parody of seduction, a smile tugging up the corner of his full lips.

"Leave off or I'll point you in his direction and jab one of my arrows in your arse, you little twerp." Eros pushed his plate away. Much more of his cousin’s company and he'd be driven to flight. Pothos opened his mouth but at that moment their lovely waitress was back with two whiskies. Again the green eyes followed the server as she took an order from the moustache-man, but there a frown creased his young brow. Pothos lifted his glass and swirled the amber liquid, considering.

"You could, you know."

Eros choked on the sip of cola he'd taken. "What?"

"Use an arrow. On me. I'd let you, provided you also used one on the object of my love." Pothos leaned forward. "Just, you know, make sure it's the waitress, okay? I think kissing Moustache would be a bit much for me."

"You're joking!" Eros burst into a roar of laughter which faded at Pothos’ lifted brow. Eros stared. "You're not."

"It'd be a lark, wouldn't it? Come on, you're just sitting around here, wearing that fuddy-duddy mortal aspect. You're not even trying." Pothos' tone was coaxing. "You need a distraction. The lass has the buttocks of Aphrodite - and that mouth! All you need do is sit back and enjoy the show. You always used to enjoy that, as I remember. Remember that time you shot that fetching shepherd lad and the middle-aged nobleman who was passing by, oh when was it? Two, three hundred years back?"

"I remember," Eros said, trying to match his cousin's light tone. "They went at it right in his coach. Cracked one of the springs. Most entertaining."

A pity the rest of the tale hadn't been so magical. The noble installed the beloved lad in his château, to his family’s horror. The jealous wife, Eros recalled, had the young man poisoned. Driven half-mad by grief, the nobleman had dwindled and lived out a colourless life. But his essential spark had dimmed to the point of being extinguished. Oh, Eros remembered the lad well. Springy curls, laughing blue eyes, and that inner flame. The lad had one of the rare mortal sparks that had caught fire and burned so brightly even immortals took notice.

But their lives were so short. Eros had been there at the beginning of mortal time. He’d seen the bright flecks of humanity arise from the Abyss, born of Chaos and Love, a blooming flower spreading across the earth. Beautiful but as brief as real sparks when compared to an immortal's span. The transitory delicacy of their souls was one reason Eros treasured them. But after aeons of observing so many flare and die, he was, well, tired. There was no better word for it. They prayed, he answered when moved. Eros found himself being moved by entreaties and libations less and less these days - it wasn't as if mortals couldn't find love on their own. He, Eros, god of love and sexual passion, was hardly needed. He heaved an inward sigh and summoned a smile.

"Much as I appreciate your attempt to cheer me up by offering to let me witness your folly, Pothos, I'll decline. You'll have to win her on your own." Eros turned his head away from his cousin. Ah, the  moustachioed basilisk had at last withdrawn his deathly gaze from their disreputable selves. Another man had joined him. Snatches of low conversation drifted over, some stiff commentary about the expense of a lunch at this pub.

Pothos straightened up, a scowl drawing lines between his brows. "You're no fun. Heavens, when did you get so boring? Those arrows are wasted on you."

"You think being the god of love is so jolly? As you say, it's not as if there's any challenge," said Eros. "All it takes is a scratch and they just tumble right into my lap like ripe quinces, afire with love. Well, I suppose you'd enjoy that." He himself used to enjoy it more, once upon a time.

"But they’re really in love!" said Pothos. His voice was rising. "Using my bolts isn't enough. Yearning. Pah! They’re always starving for attention! At least with love your mortals are content. None of that constant staring after one with those needy eyes, even after you've given them everything they could want."

"If it'd be so terrible to have yon waitress pining for you, then why in Hades don't you just use one of your so-charming bolts on yourself?" Eros' voice dropped, hard and grating. "Go on. Do it. Want her, chase her, try to win her. Perhaps if she’s not too terrified she’ll have you. When you reach the end of her days, you can weep at never having achieved that which you wanted most because it wasn’t _enough_. It shouldn't take too long. Oh, but wait - never mind. No one loves a stalker, and absolutely no one wants a hopelessly mooning god hanging about the place. It's just so - how did you put it? Pathetic." The expression stretching his lips wasn't a smile.

"You shit." Pothos grasped wood planking until it groaned. "Where do you think you get off, talking to me that way. You know your problem? You're in the same boat. Oh, poor mopey Eros, those multitudes of mortals falling for you. But they don't fall for you at all, do they? They fall to your arrows. And you don't love them back anyway, not really. And then they die, and you feel bad, oh, boo hoo. So fucking what? That's what happens. Nobody loves _you_. No one has. No one ever will, not without your little shafts of bliss."

Eros held tight to to his own mortal aspect as rage unlike any he had known in ages flared within his breast. In spite of his control, his voice rumbled with depth, the hint of his god-self trickling through the mortal cover. "How _dare_ you."

Pothos had the audacity to laugh. "Oh, not so funny when the sandal's on the other foot, is it?"

Eros uncurled the fists his hands had made and laid them flat upon the table but didn't look away from the erotes’ mocking eyes. "Fine. True love passed by the god of love, irony of ironies. But I will dispute your last point."

Pothos lifted a brow. "What, you think you can get someone to love your true self? Love a god?"

"It’s indisputable."

"Not going to happen."

"Care make a wager, oh my cousin?" Eros said.

Pothos straightened. "Stakes?"

"Oh, why not toss everything on the table," said Eros. "The sky’s the limit."

Pothos’ reply came fast. "Your quiver."

Eros didn't pause though a stab of doubt pricked him. "High stakes, indeed. Is this how you hope to opt out of being God of the Stalkers? But I get yours in exchange. Agreed?"

"Yes. Now to terms. No arrows, no grazes, no little 'accidents'." Pothos picked up the dildo-bolt and tapped the table at each phrase.

Eros snorted. "That goes without saying."

Pothos eyed him. "Oh, I don't think it does, you old trickster. You also aren't allowed to show yourself in your glory, not even partially. If the mortal is god-struck, the bet is forfeit."

"Agreed, since they then would be driven either mad or at least love-crazed." Eros had seen such mortals, and their fan-sites. The art was both disturbing and hilarious. But the consequences of a mortal seeing a god’s true form were real. Eros took full guise for casual visits to the mortal realm such as today. In his case, even a partial guise that showed him as more or less himself caused problems. Handsome and exuding sexual love, he garnered dangerous amounts of attention. It could damage mortal psyches.

“How about a time limit? Say, a year?”

Eros snorted. “I doubt it will take that long.”

“And I think it would be best if you seduced the mortal in your native element.”

Eros thought. “In darkness? Tricky. But again, I agree.”

"Lastly..." Pothos stopped. Eros waited, a slight smile on his face. "I get to choose the mortal."

Eros rocked back. That was a hard one to take. "No one ill, old or completely unsuitable."

Pothos waved the bolt side to side, the illusion of silicon wobbling around it. "Fine. The mortal will be of good age, excellent health and reasonably attractive."

“You don’t get involved with the mortal either, troublemaker,” Eros said and Pothos grinned but nodded. There was a short silence. "Anything else?" Eros queried.

Pothos shrugged. "What if I lose the bet?"

Eros' lips curled up into a sweet smile. "Oh, is that all? Very well. If I win... if I win, I’m going to do as you suggested. I'll find another appropriate mortal and ensure you fall in love with each other. Agreed?”

Pothos' gaze flickered. "All right. But that's no punishment. The stakes are uneven."

Eros' smile broadened. "Oh, but they are even. You just don't understand, do you." His voice dropped. "I've seen the consequences of love as you have not. I’ve witnessed the suffering that often walks shoulder to shoulder with bliss. And mortal lives are so, so very brief - just as you learn to appreciate love, it will be gone. So if you lose, you'll love, and lose your love. Try to enjoy it while you can."

Pothos' head went back as if struck by a blow. "Well played, cousin. Well played." His face was wary. He hissed a sigh. "Fine. We have a wager. Shall we drink on it?"

Eros nodded and picked up his cola. Pothos wrinkled his nose but clinked his whisky glass to it. They drank. Pothos drained his, throat working, and crashed the glass down, catching the edge of Eros' plate. "Whoops! Sorry about that." Eros shook his head and concentrated on picking chips from his lap while Pothos picked up the scattered cutlery and the remains of the burger. “Where’s the blasted knife gone?”

Eros glanced under the table but saw nothing. “No idea.”

"I've got just the right mortal picked out," Pothos remarked.

"What, already?" Eros frowned at him.

Pothos smiled. "Over there. That one’s not hard on the eyes. Bright, too."

Eros glanced in the direction indicated. "Not the moustache, Pothos, please. He's wearing a wedding band."

"No, dolt, the other."

Eros focused his attention on the man's companion. He was a bit small but appeared fit. His eyes were odd and slanting under a crop of curls in an unusual red-gold. Gorgeous mouth, though.  "Vivid hair to be sure, but..." He looked once more with his deeper sight. His breath stopped. Vivid within as well as without - the man's soul-spark was an incandescence that made his companion appear dim in comparison. Eros' mouth went dry.

"Martin, I don't know why you persist. All that money for that medical exam," Moustache was saying.

The younger man dropped his gaze, his expression unhappy. "A, a pilot is required to have a class one medical check every year to keep his CPL. And if I'm to keep doing interviews, I need my qualification, Simon. You don't have to get involved, you know."

"Well, someone had to drive you today. Why Dad left you that old van, I'll never know. Won't even start half the time."

Martin's head stayed down, but his soul-spark flared in annoyance. _And determination_ , Eros thought. Such inner resolve. Had Pothos noticed it? Uncommon, that spark. And so very bright!

Something unfamiliar bloomed within him. He took a deep breath, ready to agree to using the stranger in the wager.

A stab of pain in his hand jolted him. He jerked his gaze away from the young man to see Pothos tucking his bolt back into his satchel. Blood trickled from a scratch on the back of Eros' hand before the small wound closed. A sickening sensation clutched at his chest. "What's this?" he breathed. "What have you done, Pothos?"

Pothos gave him a smile of surpassing sweetness. "Given you a taste of my medicine, cousin. Enjoy mooning after your mortal."

Eros had never been closer to throttling another being. "Why? Damn you! The wager was fair."

Pothos stood and slung his satchel over a shoulder. "Two reasons. To give myself an edge in this wager - you are much too charismatic with or without love arrows, you know."

Eros looked back to Martin, the bright beauty cloaked in that unassuming body, and felt sick. His heart ached, a deep bruise within him. The insidious poison of need for the mortal was already spreading within him, tainting his perception. "And your other reason? You bastard son of Chaos."

Pothos was already strolling away. "Fun, cousin. Just having a little fun," he tossed back.

The waitress approached, eyes widening at whatever she saw on Eros’ face. "Your bill, sir?"

Eros’ eyes smouldered as his cousin left, teeth clenched to hold back the oaths that longed to spring forth. _The little dung-heap hadn't even left any money._ “I’ll take care of it, yes.”


	2. The Betrothal of Martin Crieff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin receives unexpected news.

 

 

 

[The 3rd day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

“Oh, Martin, I can make the tea,” Wendy Crieff said, pulling down the mugs. Martin held back a sigh.

“Mum, let me, I can handle it,” he said. But his hands relaxed on the tin as his mother took it away. He stood watching with hands empty of tasks as she spooned the loose leaf into the tea-ball, brisk in her movements. Red-gold hair, the faded match to his own, was lit by the sun through the net curtains. The kettle clicked off and his mother’s hand lifted it before his own hand reached the handle.

“It won’t be the same, now my last child is leaving the nest,” Wendy sighed. “Again. But you have your own place now.”

Martin grimaced. Bad enough that after so many unsuccessful goes at his licence that he’d been strapped enough for cash to leave his flat-share and move back home. His self-worth had been further abraded by his long hunt for a pilot’s position. His mother was the most supportive of his family, but it was time for him to, well, spread his wings in spite of the mild guilt he felt in leaving her alone again. He was sorry for it, but… And of course his mum was a wonderful cook, and the house so comfortable without Simon and Caitlin around… No. No, Martin had to go.

He winced at the thought of his new attic room. After his shattering interview with Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, the CEO of MJN, the first thing he’d done was check local listings. The house share wasn’t ideal but it suited his new financial situation. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t lived in penurious conditions before. After a night camping in his van, he’d returned to Wokingham to give his mother the good news. It was past time he got his own place. Gods, how much of his stuff would fit into his new accommodation? His mother turned back to him and he hastily schooled his worried face into a smile.

“And the interview was a success! I’m so pleased. I’m sure your father would have been proud. Sugar? No, wait, you like yours with a dash of milk.”

Martin pushed away the memory of his father telling him he should give up his foolish studies. “I’ll get it.” He beat his mother to the fridge and took out the milk, shaking the carton. “There’s only a splash left.”

“Well, you should have it.”

“Mum, you never drink tea without milk, really, it’s all right,” Martin began but again gave way before her insistence.

“No, it's fine, you go ahead and have tea the way you like it today. I’ll take mine black,” Wendy said.

“Thanks, Mum.” Martin gave up and poured the milk in his mug. Better not to mention his preference these days for coffee or there'd be no end to it. He doubted his mother had any, which meant she'd want to pop out and get some for him. Martin smiled at her, eyes crinkling. He supposed he would always be her little boy, even when he was fifty and fat. She never changed.

He looked around the tidy but dated kitchen. The tiny altar niche next to the telephone held his mother's statuette of Hera and his late father's Hermes. Several cheap votive repousse medallions hung around the pair, one for each child. Athena the wise was for Caitlin and Simon's was Eunomia the lawful. Martin had chosen Iris the winged for himself, she of sea and sky. The Elpis and Eros medals were newer additions he remembered from his teens, his mother's hopes for grandchildren already arising. Thank the heavens for Simon's two kids taking the pressure off Caitlin and himself.

All the votive pieces were dust-free and and well-tended. A flower bowl decorated the niche beside a flat wine cup of clay that was empty at the moment. Martin reached over and rubbed a thumb over Eros, tracing the feathered details of the handsome god's wings. Eros was the god he held closest to his heart, even above Iris, though he’d never told anyone why. He shut his eyes and sent the familiar prayer up, lips moving. A wave of goosebumps prickled up his arms and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Martin shuddered. The old house had always been full of draughts.

“One sugar in mine,” Simon called from the living room. “I’ve almost got the monitor cables connected.” Martin's shoulders tightened. Typical. His older brother Simon had to be here when Martin wanted to share his triumph uncontested. But, no, Simon had come today with a spanking new computer for his mother. Never mind that the old one worked as well as ever. He tried not to let Simon bother him, but it was hard. Simon exuded success and flashy gifts. Martin had been a perpetual student for years and now had to pretend he wouldn’t be struggling to cover his rent.

 _No, be fair - it’s not like he consciously means to show you up._ Martin swallowed, thinking of his salary at MJN Air. _Non-salary._ With luck, no one would ever discover the truth. He still had his dad’s old van. He’d work it out. But now - now he was a captain! Of an airline - well, it wasn’t much of an airline but still - captain. He was so looking forward to telling Simon.

In his pocket, Martin’s old phone buzzed once - a text alert. He ignored his mother’s faint protest and gathered up the tea mugs. Shoulders squared, he marched into the living room and set Simon’s mug with a clunk on the coffee table. He caught his mother’s movement from the corner of his eye. Oops. He lifted the mug again and swept a coaster under it.

“Come out from behind there, Simon, and let’s hear Martin's news. Martin, sit by me and tell me all about it.” Wendy patted the seat of the chintz-patterned sofa.

Simon laid down his screwdriver on the old desk and picked up his mug. “Yes, do tell. After all those tries at your CPL, have you finally managed to land a job? Do they make you fly from the back-seat?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” Martin tasted his milky tea and put the wish of coffee out of his head.

“Oh, are you - what is the term? First boy?” his mother asked.

“No, Mum, that's first officer. You're confusing a few things,” Martin said, a flush beginning to creep up his neck as Simon guffawed. He paused, savouring the moment. “To tell the truth, I'm not actually the first officer. I'm going to be... I’m the captain.”

Simon grinned. “Captain Crieff! That’ll be the day.”

Martin raised his cup of tea and took a nonchalant sip. “No. You’re joking, right?” Simon gaped, his face a picture of astonishment. “You're not really a captain?”

Martin’s smile split his face. His mother gasped. “Martin, that's wonderful! Oh, wait until I tell everyone!” She hugged him and bounced to her feet. “Never mind tea. This calls for wine and thanks!”

“Mum, no, really, I've already done the libations at a temple!” Martin said, but she disappeared, presumably to dig out the bubbly.

“Well, well, my little brother the captain! So, Martin, where's this job at?” Simon asked. Martin ground his teeth. Couldn't he have just one moment? Just one minute to enjoy his bubble of happiness without Simon puncturing it with his know-all attitude and patronising moustache of... of superiority?

“MJN Air. It's a small company. They run chartered flights.” His phone buzzed twice against his hip. Martin pulled it out and powered it down without checking the texts, keeping his eyes fixed on the buttons. Here it comes. Martin was terrible at lying.

“Never heard of them,” Simon said. “Are they reputable? How big is their fleet?”

“Yes, um, they're pretty well known in the industry,” Martin hedged, laying the phone on the coffee table.

“How many planes?” Simon said, seeing the evasion.

Martin picked up his mug and took a hasty swallow, coughing. Simon chuckled. “Oh, come on, Martin. I can just Google it -”

“Simon, would you mind getting this cork out for me?” Martin's mother was back and never had one of her interruptions been more timely. Martin crashed his mug on the table and rocketed from the sofa.

“Let me! I can do it!” He took the bottle of sparkling wine and began working at the cork. “Good gods, is this thing glued?” He twitched as his phone buzzed again, a steady pulse now. He stared at it, a trickle of unease running down his spine. He'd turned it off. Hadn't he? Maybe the cursed thing was broken.

Simon raised a brow. “Aren't you going to get that? Might be your employer. I’ll answer for you since your hands are full.” He reached for Martin's battered phone which was doing its best to vibrate its escape to the table’s edge.

“No, Simon, no, don’t -” Martin said.

“Let it be, Simon,” their mother said, returning with three wine glasses. “We're going to have a quick toast to celebrate your brother’s good fortune... oh, who could that be?” The kitchen phone was trilling. Simon stood to answer it but paused when his mother’s clunky old hand-held on the sideboard began to bleat in unison. Again, Martin's skin prickled. It couldn’t be… could it?

“Mum,” he said. “Mum, I think...” He swallowed, tried again. “I did, um, pray recently. Giving thanks, and, and, you know. This - well, I just have a feeling. Something - someone wants our attention.” He thought of the secret prayer he'd just sent, one of many as yet unanswered. His heart hammered. Nervous sweat made him clutch harder at the now-slippery wine bottle.

Simon’s moustache moved as his lips moved but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is anyone going answer that?” His tone said clearly it wasn’t going to be him.

The various buzzes and trills cut off. In the silence that followed the three of them moved closer to each other. The PC bleeped and the monitor flashed to life. Martin was glad he wasn't the only one that jumped.

Simon looked unnerved. “But I haven't even plugged it in yet.”

“I don't think that matters, dear,” Wendy said. Martin choked back a hysterical giggle when a browser popped open with an email inbox already opened. Apparently the gods did need Firefox, even if they bypassed the normal boot-up procedures. His mother peered at it. “I need my reading glasses. What does it say?”

With Simon’s elbow shoving him forward, Martin couldn't avoid reading. He scanned it once, twice, disbelieving. “It's for me. From Hermes.” With care, he set the wine bottle next to the keyboard.

“A little visitation would've impressed the neighbours,” Simon muttered and his mother shushed him. Martin forced himself to read on, voice a little choked.

 

**To: Martin Crieff < mcrieff@mjncharter.uk >**

**From: Hermes < onthewing@olympusmessenger.hv >**

**Cc: ??? [ unknown address - syntax error 54? ]**

**Unto Martin Crieff, mortal,**

**Χαίρε, Martin, favoured of the gods and blessed by their beneficence,**

**Thou hast been sifted out from all the population of the mortal realm and gained the favour of ??/unknownsyntaxerror!54??. Thou art to become their beloved spouse.**

**Give voice to praise for thy great fortune unto ??/unknownsyntaxerror!54??. Thou and thy immortal love shall be conjoined at the place known as Dover, upon the white cliffs within three days.**

**Pray heed and give thanks and assent in reply to this message ASAP.**

**Hermes**

**Messenger of the Gods**

 

Martin clutched at the desk edge while his brother exclaimed and his mother laughed in delight. No. No, no, no. His sight dimmed around the edges and he let himself go to his knees on the carpet before he lost his balance. The edge of the desk felt wonderful and sharp against his forehead as he tried to control his breathing.

“Martin? Martin, aren't you happy?” His mother's little pats brought his head up again. She was in middle-class ecstasies of snobbery. “A god! My Martin, marrying an immortal! I must tell Mavis!”

“No,” Martin got out. “No, I'm not. Not marrying anyone.”

“What?” Simon was incredulous. “Are you daft? You'll never need to work again! You'll be rich and influential! I’d be over the moon in your place.” He sounded as though he'd happily swap places with Martin, never mind about his wife and children. Martin drew in a restoring breath and levered himself up.

“No, I'm not over the moon! Why on earth would I be? Just when I finally made it, became a pilot, a captain, some god wants to just dump me in an arranged marriage? What about what I want?”

His mother's face was distressed and bewildered. “But Martin...”

“No. No, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mum. But there are limits. I don’t want this.” Before Simon was able to stop him, Martin stabbed out a reply with numb fingers and pressed Send.

 

**No thanjk you./**

 

Simon groaned. “You idiot. Do you understand what you've done? Our whole family will be cursed.”

Martin was light-headed, floating untethered somewhere above his panic. He smiled giddily. “I don't care.”

A message window pinged up. It was Hermes again, the words in an obnoxious font large and bright enough to be read over two yards away. His mother ooh-ed.

**H - Aren't you the troublesome one.**

“Martin's never been a trouble,” his mother defended. “You tell him that, Martin. But politely.”

**H - I can pick up everything through your computer's microphone.**

“Oh.” Wendy patted her hair in a nervous gesture. “Fancy that, talking to Hermes.”

**H - Yes, a great honour, I’m sure. Martin, you don't understand what you are doing.**

“Yes, I do,” Martin said. His hands trembled and there was a sour taste at the back of his throat.

**H - Reconsider. Have you not prayed for love?**

Martin flushed in embarrassment. That was between him and the gods! “Yes. But -”

**H - Your prayer has been answered. He says he longs for you. Zeus knows why, I don't see it myself. But understand, Martin: immortal beings are used to having their own way without arguments from petty mortals. Now get a grip. You have three days in which to pick out your finery.**

“Oh, fine, then that’s what I’ll do, swan around and pick out a lovely frock -!” Martin heard his voice becoming shrill but was helpless to stop the torrent of words spilling out.

**H - Er, frock? He... Oh. Oh, really? He says that’s fine if that’s what you wish to wear. Skies above, you mortals always surprise me.**

“And swear my life to some.... some faceless... And just give up everything, I won’t, I won't do it!” Martin's voice broke on the last word. Simon had sunk down in an armchair with his hands covering his face. His mother seemed to have lost her voice.

**H - You seem to believe you have a choice.**

Martin’s thoughts flew at the speed of terror. He might be able to appeal to another god for intervention, but that too often ended with mortals being turned into trees or flowers and the like. Running away was likewise hopeless. There was only one thing left.

Martin gulped. “Mortals always have one choice.” His mother made a faint dismayed noise but he pushed on. “I can't have a life without flying. I won't. I've worked too hard and dreamed about it for too long. I can give up my prayers for... for the other thing but I won’t give up this. I’d rather... I’d rather die.” His voice was too loud in the small room. He stopped, breathing hard.

There was a long pause.

**H - You dare to bargain, Martin Crieff?**

Martin's mouth opened and closed but nothing came out. The message window beeped twice, imperiously.

**H - He wishes to know... Yes, I'll tell him. I'm asking him now! Hades, this is worse than carrying actual love letters. No, let me do my job, I am not a singing telegram! Thank you.  Are those your terms, Martin?**

Simon peeked out through his fingers. His mother pressed her hands to her mouth. Martin stood swaying, the metaphorical sky hanging over his head and just within his reach. He managed to croak, “I want to fly. In an aeroplane. Not... not dropped or anything like that.”

**H - If these are your terms, in his passion he will grant you this. In return, you must love your spouse and please him. Do this and you may continue to pursue your work in aeroplanes. He does not wish you to be unhappy. Ugh, stop making me send this revolting mush.**

Simon spoke up. “Does he swear?”

**H - Oh my feathered sandals, do you not have the smallest concept of - oh, fine. Yes, he swears it. What is your answer, Martin Crieff, oh most fortunate of mortals?**

This wasn’t right. There was something else. His mother seemed to be speaking, soothing words about it being as good as could be hoped.

**H - He is waiting.**

A thought was niggling at the back of Martin’s mind but he couldn’t concentrate on it over the din of rushing blood through his head. What was it? “Just... just... “ he stuttered. Simon was at his elbow now, lips moving.

The PC made a rude bleating beep.

**H - I wouldn’t disappoint him if I were you, Martin. How quickly love turns to wrath, after all.**

“For the sake of us all, Martin!” Simon blurted, his nerve broken.

“Yes,” Martin said, then clapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide. Yes? Oh ye gods, had he just agreed to be the consort husband of a god? Had he argued with one? About the terms of his arranged marriage?

_What have I done?_

**H - Agreed, Martin. He says he greatly looks forward to your joining. Ugh. Why you, I’ll never understand.**

Martin’s chest hurt. Simon’s hands were around his, prying his hand away from his nose and mouth, muttering, “Breathe, Martin. And congratulations. You did the right thing.”

Martin gasped a lungful of air. He lunged at the computer, his elbow knocking over the wine bottle. “No! Wait! Don’t go!” He pounded at the keyboard.

But the PC was dark.

Wendy was jubilant. “Oh, Martin. I'm so proud of you. All my prayers for you, answered! A call from Hermes and a wedding with an immortal!” She was beaming at him as if he’d done something wonderful. _Oh, but I haven’t._ The thought that had been evading him finally came to the fore and blew up in an annihilating burst of realisation.

“Oh, gods.” Martin’s hands went to his hair and clutched. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening!”

Simon was mopping at his brow and scowled at him. “What? Managing to deflect the wrath of the gods? You didn’t want that to happen?”

“No! Well yes! I mean...” Martin tugged ferociously until the pain cleared his head. He whirled on Simon, hands outstretched. “Simon, weren’t you listening? I get to keep flying - if I love him and please him. I have to please him.” He needed Simon to understand. If there existed a list of mortals best suited to please immortals, Martin’s name would be so far down it’d be in danger of falling off.

“Oh, Martin, I’m sure you’ll be able to to that. You’re such a sweet boy, of course you’ll make him happy.” Wendy  took his hand and pressed it. Martin throttled back a wail of despair at his mother’s blind confidence.

Simon’s face grew solemn but he shook his head. “Well... well, think of our family.”

“Well, pardon me for not wanting to throw away my life’s dream for the sake of family!” Martin drew away from his mother. “Not to mention my life!” His eyes widened and he began to breathe faster. “Oh, gods, I think I have. What is he? Simon, we don’t know anything.”

“Well...” His mother seemed reluctant to concede that this might be a legitimate worry. “Well, perhaps it’s so you won’t be intimidated?”

“Or terrified. What if he’s some, I don’t know.” Martin paced a tight circle, gesturing. “Some horrendous thing, a monster from the Abyss, or a Titan! I -” Not even in front of his mother would Martin allude to death in the bedroom by ravishment. Or just dying at some immortal’s whims. He felt his face drain of colour. “We don’t even know who.”

His mother’s brow furrowed. “Yes, a name would be helpful. But I’m sure you needn’t be afraid, Martin.”

Simon had his glossy smartphone out, fingers flying. “Subscribed to the Delphic Oracle app ages ago... sometimes use it to consult about council business. Never mind the credit charge, this will mean very big things for... I mean, it’s important for our family to know.”

“Oh, please, Simon,” said Wendy. “Do ask her!”

“‘Who...or...what,’” Simon said as he typed.

“Oh, thanks for that, thank you so much,” Martin said. His hands had curled into tight fists. Please, please, he’d prayed for love, please let there be at least the smallest chance...

“‘...will... Martin Crieff... marry in three days' time?’” Simon finished. He pressed Confirm. Martin held his breath. The answering chime was very loud. Simon swiped to open the message and read. He lifted stunned eyes to Martin.

“What does it say?” their mother breathed. Simon turned the phone so they could read it.

 

_Terrible and pure, an ancient creature of darkness and fire is to be the mate of the mortal Martin Crieff._

 

“But can’t... can't I know who?” Martin could hardly force the words out.

Simon shook his head but typed some more. The reply came almost at once.

 

_My sources say no._

 

Martin stared at the text until the letters blurred. He didn’t cry, faint, bemoan his fate or do any of the other traditional responses to an old-fashioned arranged marriage. His mother was stroking his arm but the sensation was distant. That was it, then. He was going to marry some horrible monster. With his luck it’d a primordial snake-thing from the Abyss. He was going to die like a virgin sacrifice, except he wasn't one, really. There’d never been any need for him to bargain with his life in order to keep flying planes.

It was over.

He turned towards the family altar, legs not responding quite as they should. The last of the afternoon sun picked out the side of Eros’ face casting a shadow that made it seem as if the handsome face was smirking. “Oh, thank you,” he said to his god. “Thank you so much for finally answering my prayers.”

As if on cue, the loosened champagne cork popped free with a sound like a shot and hit the back of his head.

 


	3. Surprising Stags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a G&T too many the night before his wedding and talks about... aeroplanes. What else?

Carolyn had been stroppy when Martin had called to give her the news that she might be looking for another pilot. _Though,_ Martin thought, _good luck finding one that’ll work for free._ After an awkward period trying to explain, he gave the phone to his mother. A few minutes conversation passed while Martin slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, listening to the occasional squawks from the other end of the line as Wendy explained. She returned the phone to him, pressed a kiss to the top of his head and left him alone.

Carolyn’s voice sounded a bit shaken, though she tried for astringency. “Well. A pilot asking for indefinite time off because he’s going to elope with an immortal. This is a first.”

“For me too,” said Martin and winced at stating the obvious. Any hope he’d had that the events of that day had been a horrible hallucination had been dispelled. A terse email had come from Hermes, stating the exact location and time. Three days. Three short days to get his affairs in order and resign himself to the inevitable. “Anyway, it’s not an elopement. My family will be there. To... to give me away.”

“That’s nice,” said Carolyn. “I’d want my nearest and dearest at such an event myself. I think.”

Martin swallowed. His mother had decided they weren’t going to tell anyone until - well, until afterwards. ‘I’m not saying it won’t work out, love,’ Wendy had said in her hopelessly cheerful way. ‘But better safe than sorry.’

It wasn't as if Martin had that many close mates to see him off. But it was depressing how few he’d get to say goodbye to before he was leg-shackled to a horror. He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose...?”

She picked up his drift right away. “Yes, of course. As your employers, we at MJN Air would be honoured to accept your invitation, Martin. What time is it to take place?”

“Well, just after the sun sets, at, er, at the edge of the cliffs in Dover. Around nine.”

“No, silly man, the reception! Of course you’re having one?”

“Well, we tried getting a booking at the White Cliffs Hotel in St. Margaret’s but -”

“Let us take care of that. Well, I say us, but I mean Douglas will take care of it.”

“Douglas?” Martin felt off-balance at the speed Carolyn took control.

“Yes, Douglas Richardson. You haven’t met him yet, he’s to be your first officer. I plucked him out of the gutter just this week - fired for smuggling from Air Britannia. But he does have a way about him and anyone with a near-criminal background is sure to have a number of tricks up his sleeve. Much to your benefit, Douglas works for me now, so if I say hop, he’ll get you your reception.” Her tone was smug.

Martin was both amazed at her generousity and flabbergasted at her optimism. She spoke as if this Douglas really were to be his first officer instead of being promoted over Martin’s soon-to-be deceased  - or worse - body.

“I don’t know what to say, Carolyn.” Martin rubbed his forehead.

“No need for thanks, Martin,” she said, brisk and unsentimental. “Just don’t get so caught up in the honeymoon that you forget you’re my pilot now. I’ll expect your call not a week after the wedding, understood?”

Martin found that in spite of everything he was able to laugh. “Yes, Carolyn.”

 

 

 

 

[The 5th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

And so it was that Martin found himself sitting at a bar table in the White Cliffs Hotel with a gin and tonic sweating in his hand. The mysterious Douglas had not only arranged a lovely evening dinner reception, but had even managed to book two family suites for the night in the supposedly full-up hotel.

It was also because of Douglas' suggestion that Martin was getting an impromptu stag night. His mother, Carolyn and his sister Caitlin had retired to one of the apartments to ‘let the boys have their fun,’ as Carolyn phrased it. Now the odd foursome sat ‘round a table in the hotel’s bar, sans the usual trappings of a pre-wedding send-off. Simon sat nursing a pint and looking in turns both bewildered and irritated at Arthur Shappey’s bizarre conversational non-sequiturs. Douglas lounged in his chair looking relaxed and.. and all lord-of-the-domain-ish. _Ugh._ Martin gulped at his drink.

Douglas was - well, not the seedy smuggler Martin had half-expected. No, Martin thought with a pang, he looked and sounded like everything Martin wished he himself could be. Tall, handsome and ageing well with it, with a rich authoritative voice. It was unfortunate that what came out of his mouth was so obnoxious. The man was so self-assured, it bordered on being insufferable. He had made Martin feel an inadequate tit right from the go. Following their introductory handshake  Douglas had looked him up and down, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

“Well, well, my captain! And soon-to-be God-Consort! I do hope you won’t forget us lowly beings after you’ve ascended that social ladder to the heavens.” He chuckled, and Martin had hated him.

“Yes, very funny. It’s fine for you to laugh. You’re not the one facing a wedding night with some… some thing,” Martin snapped.

Douglas lifted a supercilious brow. “Me, marry an immortal? Heavens forfend! But as for spending the night with one...”

“Oh, please,” Martin groaned. Of course Douglas would have, he looked just the type.

“Wow,” Arthur said. “Have you really, Douglas? Which one?”

“You mean, ‘which ones,’ Arthur,” Douglas replied with a wink. “I’d love to say, but a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Yes, thank you, Douglas, now the entire lobby has heard what a shining example of virility you are, let’s have dinner,” Carolyn said with a roll of her eyes. She took the bemused Wendy Crieff’s arm and steered her away. “Now, Mrs. Crieff. Why don’t you tell me about Martin when he was a little boy?”

Wendy smiled in fond remembrance. "Oh, he was a dear little thing, bright as a new penny. He always loved planes. Why, when he was five years old, he once told me..."

Martin groaned aloud. "This isn't happening. Tell me my mother isn't telling my soon-to-be boss embarrassing baby stories."

Arthur looked confused. "I'd love to tell you that, Skip. But I’m pretty sure she is."

 

 

Martin blinked as the glass in front of him disappeared, replaced by a full one. "No, really, I've had enough," he said.

Douglas smiled. "Call it a nightcap, then, my captain."

"I wish you’d stop calling me that," Martin said. Douglas had come down in the world if he’d been a captain with Air England, but there was no need for him to take the piss. Martin didn’t need it. Not tonight. “Aren’t you having anything?”

“Alas. Haven't touched the stuff in, oh, eight years now. So much easier to do one’s job and remember all the regs when one isn’t hungover.” Douglas looked secretly amused, perhaps at the thought of Martin’s upcoming pain.

"But you are our captain, Skip," Arthur said. "I'm glad we have a real skipper! Mum was worried about not having enough pilots." Martin couldn't help smirking at Douglas over Arthur's support. At least someone thought he was captain-like. Skip. He liked the sound of that.

“Actually, Arthur, having ‘Skip’ is a bit of a windfall for our little airline,” Douglas drawled. “Just consider: married to an immortal. All that power behind him. The wealth. Never a need for a salary. He might even get his own toy plane. He doesn’t need a job. MJN will be lucky if he stays on.”

Martin glared at Douglas. But Arthur was undampened by Douglas’ suggestion that Martin would soon be too lofty for their little company. “I guess we are lucky! It’s going to be great!”

"Arthur, we don't know if Martin is, erm," Simon said, unsure how to break it to the cheerful young man. "We’re not sure if Martin's going to be able to keep his job after the wedding."

"What, you mean like a lady getting married and giving up her job to stay home and have babies?" Arthur asked. Martin shrank lower in his seat as Douglas rocked with silent laughter. "Oh, I'm sure Skip's husband won't mind if he keeps flying for us!"

Simon opened his mouth but nothing came out. Martin felt a flush climbing his neck. The image of himself in a frilly apron covering a baby bump inserted itself in the forefront of his brain and was refusing to be dislodged. "Arthur, I have to say that... I mean, with two men - well, I assume it’s a he and not just an it...”

“What our captain means,” interjected Douglas, “is that a bouncing bundle of joy isn’t likely to happen."

"I know that," Arthur said. "Still, being a housewife would be kind of brilliant, wouldn't it? Maybe you should try that, Skip. You get to stay home all day and play video-games. Oh, and cook! I love trying out new dishes. Wait till you try one! I invented The Green Omelette. Though now I remember, I didn't mean to do that. Snoopadoop - that's our dog - took hers outside and buried it in the garden."

Simon had to smile at that, while Douglas covered the side of his mouth and shaped the words, 'No, no, _never_ ,' in Martin's direction.

"Martin's never been interested in anything much except aeroplanes," Simon said, dragging the conversation back to less fanciful grounds. "He told us he wanted to be a pilot when he was six years old, can you imagine."

"Yes, what was that your mum was telling Carolyn?" Douglas asked, relishing his question. "That you’d wanted to be an aeroplane? Whatever changed your mind?"

"A god," Martin snapped. Simon lifted his eyes to the heavens and took a drink, grinning.

"Oh, go on, Martin," Douglas said. "The horrible immortal said you couldn’t become a cute anthropomorphic machine and have adventures? Terrible the way children's programming tells such scurrilous lies to the young. Were you much disappointed?"

"No, thanks, I'd rather not tell you if you're just going to mock me for it." Martin took a gulp of his drink and glared.

"Please, Skip, I want to hear!" Arthur said. Martin shook his head, and wished he hadn't as the room tilted.

"I'll tell, since Martin doesn't want to," Simon volunteered. "So, I'd taken him to the park with me where I could play football. There was no way Martin could play, being just a tiny thing. I left him at the swing set."

"A tad irresponsible, wasn’t it? Leaving him alone?" said Douglas.

Simon took a sip and shrugged. "There were lots of other children and parents there - I thought he'd be all right. Forgot about him. By the time I remembered, it was getting on to tea time and he was gone. Ran all over the park looking for him."

"Frightened of what our parents would say when you came home without me," Martin muttered.

"What happened then?" Arthur wanted to know.

"Nothing," said Simon. "I found him across the road in a farmer’s field, for Hera’s sake! He said he'd been playing at being an aeroplane and talked to a god. 'But I'm not going to be a plane any more, Simon,' he said. 'I'm going to be a pilot now.' And now? Now he is. The damnedest thing." He lifted his glass in a small salute to Martin, who blinked at the unusual sentimentality.

"But that still doesn't explain, Martin." Douglas couldn't leave it alone. "What did the god say?"

"Yeah, Skip! Finish the story," Arthur said.

"Oh, fine," Martin said. "Nothing to tell, really. I walked right into him." Arthur grinned in delight at this. Douglas merely raised both brows. "He’d just landed right there in front of me, but I hadn’t noticed. Had this purple cloak slung around him. He asked why I was alone. I said I was an aeroplane, and the other kids, well, they didn’t like my game. Of course he asked, ‘Why an aeroplane?’ I said I wanted to fly."

"Flying's brilliant," agreed Arthur, sucking at his pineapple juice. Encouraged, Martin went on.

"He asked why I didn't pray for wings. Pretty stupid, only gods get wings, and I told him so. Made him laugh. But he said I couldn't be a real aeroplane."

"And that's when great tears began rolling down your little face," Douglas suggested but Martin scowled at him.

"No, that's not happened. This is my story, all right?" Douglas held up a placating hand and gestured for him to continue. Martin went on, "Okay, I didn't take it well, but there was _no crying_. So he said - and I've always remembered it. He said, 'Why settle for being an aeroplane, when you can be a pilot and fly the plane? That way, you can take people flying with you and you won't be alone.'"

There was a short silence while they absorbed this. Douglas’ lips parted and he looked at Martin with renewed attention.

"Wow," said Arthur, his mouth open. "I never thought of gods being lonely." Simon snorted at this.

"Do you know which god you met?" Douglas asked.

Martin started to nod, changed it to a head shake and decided he'd better stop doing that. He felt boneless and more than a little drunk. It was a pleasant sensation. "Nope,” he managed to lie. "But, but he had wings." In fact, the god _had_ introduced himself, but Martin wasn't so drunk that he’d give that ammunition to Douglas. Bad enough Martin’s lifelong prayers to his god had been wasted. "Of course I thought that the idea of being a pilot amazing. And he smiled at me and called me a bright little spark. Tousled my hair and left. And that's when Simon found me."

"I didn't see any thing," Simon said.

"A pity," Douglas said. "The mystery will haunt me for evermore." Martin eyed him but Douglas' probable smirk was hidden as he lifted his glass.

"Oh," Arthur complained. "I want to hear another story."

"Under normal circumstances I myself would be more than happy to gratify you, Arthur, but tonight is for Martin," Douglas said. "And so, I'd like to propose a toast, on this, the night before his wedding."

Martin struggled out of his chair with the others, the reminder of the reason he was here tonight dropping like lead into his stomach. He tried to smile but it slid from his face. He swallowed. Douglas lifted his glass and looked straight at him. Martin braced himself for a ribbing.

"Here's to my captain," said Douglas. "May he ever have the wings to fly as high as he dreams, may the gods always grant him such wisdom, and may he find happiness." Martin's eyes widened at this simple and sincere toast, but hastily lifted his glass to clink. "To Skip!" "Here, here, Martin! The best to you, little brother." They drank. Martin gasped for air as the burn settled low in his stomach.

They settled themselves again and Douglas turned to Martin. "Now, Captain Crieff. As this little gathering is in your honour, what do you want to talk about?"

Martin fidgeted. "I don't know."

"I do," said Simon. He sounded disgusted in the way only an older brother could, but he was smiling. "You only ever want to talk about aeroplanes."

"I don't," Martin protested. "I can talk about... about lots of other things! Other than planes."

"Nonsense," Simon said. He slapped the table as if to settle the matter. "Go on. Let's hear about the planes you're going to fly."

A lump settled in Martin's throat. Simon had never been anything but disinterested if not dismissive whenever Martin had talked of his plans for becoming a pilot. _Gods, he must be really worried about me_ , Martin thought. He cleared his throat. "Well... well, there's this one plane." He waited for Douglas to ruin things by saying how MJN’s entire fleet was this one plane, but Douglas settled back in his chair with an expression of attention. "It's a Lockheed McDonnell 312."

"G-ERTI!" said Arthur. "That's what we call her," he explained to Simon.

"I'm looking forward to flying her," Martin said, pushing aside the thought that he might not ever get the chance. "She's an older model, not many of of the 312's left. Analogue controls, nothing digital, so I'll have to pay more attention, but I’m looking forward to learning her quirks. Her fuselage and nacelles were manufactured in Belfast, you know..." The liquor had loosened his tongue and the trivia just streamed out. He didn't care that he was babbling, just that he was with people who seemed to care.

Arthur listened with the odd interjection of, "Wow, you're really smart, Skip!" or "I didn't know that, that's brilliant!"

Simon just listened, nodding as if he understood everything Martin was saying.

And Douglas sipped his drink. He didn't interrupt or make any more snarky comments. He only kept  his gaze on Martin's face, a faint smile curving his lips.

 

 

Douglas unwound the arm Martin had slung over his shoulders as they'd manoeuvred the stairs to his room in the family suite. Simon had taken the master bedroom. Arthur had been more than happy with the fold-out sofa bed. He thought it 'was just like staying over at a big family do, like Christmas or one of those things where there's too many people and not enough beds!’

Douglas had forborne to mention that the situation was exactly like that. In the short time he had come to know Arthur Knapp-Shappey, he understood that quite often explanations were either an exercise in futility or a waste of breath. He turned Martin around to face him. "There you are, captain. Bed’s right behind you. Time to come in for a landing."

Martin fell loose-limbed back on the bed with a bounce. He groaned. "Oh, sweet Iris, the light keeps going round and round." He flung an arm over his eyes to block the sight and moaned again. "This isn't helping. Now the whole room is going."

Douglas looked with amusement at the slight figure lying on the flowered spread. "Perhaps that second nightcap was a mistake. My captain doesn't have enough body mass to keep up with his thirst."

Martin flapped his free hand at him. "'m not small," he muttered. "Just... below average."

"I'll take your word for it," Douglas said but the joke passed Martin by. Douglas snorted and knelt to begin working off Martin's shoes. Martin twitched and giggled when his socks were pulled free.

"Ah! Stoppit. Ticklish."

"So I see," Douglas said. "But first we have to make you more comfortable. You'll be sorry otherwise in the morning." He began working open the fly of Martin's jeans, brushing away Martin's weak hands and slurred protests of, 'No, c'n do it m'self.'

"Yes, yes," Douglas soothed. "My captain is a capable one, I’m sure. However, it will go a lot faster if the first officer takes the controls this time. Up." Martin obligingly arched his back as directed and Douglas tugged the jeans over his hips. Douglas bit the inside of his cheek as he noted in passing that small though Martin was in stature, in one area the gods' blessings had been generous. He folded the jeans and set them aside.

Martin lay boneless on the bed in his old t-shirt and a pair of blue boxers, legs akimbo and eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling. His bright hair was mussed and there was an alcoholic flush staining the pale skin of his cheeks. The nervous tension that characterised Martin's every interaction and make him awkward seemed to have dissolved. He looked, Douglas decided, utterly fetching. Douglas swallowed and dragged his thoughts back to practicalities.

"Come on, let's get you up where you belong." He levered Martin's legs up until he lay more or less on the bed and helped him sit up against the pillows.

"Don't wanna sit. Wanna sleep now." Martin's tone was querulous.

"In just a few minutes. I'll get you some water."

" _Sleep_."

"Water first, and paracetamol," said Douglas in his best I-am-in-charge-here voice.

"Changed my mind. Don't wanna sleep. Next thing is waking up," mumbled Martin. "Was happy tonight. It was good, wasn't it? Thanks, Dougl's. Was... was nice. Good way to end."

Douglas hesitated but left the room. He found the tablets in his overnight bag and returned with a glass. Seating himself by Martin's hip, he held out the tablets. "Take these. Drink all the water. I'll leave more on the table here. It's a damned good thing your wedding's tomorrow evening. If I'm not mistaken, you're going to have one hell of a head in the morning."

Martin took the tablets and sipped water like an obedient child. Douglas rose and busied himself switching on a lamp and turning off the light. The dimness was welcoming and warm. He turned back to see Martin watching him with those odd pale eyes, the half-full glass held loosely in his lap. Lamplight fell on one side of his face, outlining the curve of a sharp cheekbone and highlighting the dark smudge beneath an eye. It was obvious the lad was dreading his union. On the whole, Douglas decided, he couldn’t blame him.

"Why me?" Martin said in a defeated tone, the words now clear of any drunken slur. "Why me, Douglas."

 _Oh, we’re past the room-spinning and into the maudlin stage_. _Damn_. Douglas couldn't leave Martin in this state. His captain appeared just the type to worry himself to the point of vomiting. Douglas dredged up his best bedside manner and sat back on the bed, nudging the wastepaper bin closer with his foot, just in case. He cleared his throat. "It's hard for mortals to understand the gods' reasons sometimes, Martin."

"Don't think it's a god," mumbled Martin, looking at his glass. "The Oracle said it was a creature."

"Well, compared with your own human self, all immortal beings are 'creatures'. And as for Oracles? High on fumes and full of elliptic prophecies most of the time."

Martin refused to be comforted. "I'm going to die."

"Aren't we all, eventually? It's the in-between parts that are so interesting," said Douglas.

His jocular tone struck a sour chord in Martin. "The part where I marry an ancient fiery thing I'd rather pass on. So don't tell me it'll be all right. You don't know."

Stung, Douglas began to rise. "Fine, I won't. I'm not a fortune-teller."

"No, wait, Douglas." Martin sat upright, sloshing water. "I didn't mean it like that."

Douglas settled himself again. "All right. You're apprehensive.” His forehead knotted as he considered what to say. It wasn’t easy, this comforting business, rather outside his usual milieu. “But Martin, everyone is, before great change in their lives."

"Yeah."

Douglas waited. Martin rolled his head to look away. “I have no idea what’s going to happen. And... and I’m afraid, Douglas.”

Ah. That was a thorny one. “The future is a mystery, even in marriages. Still, marrying a stranger is enough to give anyone pause,” Douglas offered. “Best not to speculate on it too much.” Martin hiccuped a laugh and looked back to him.

“The horrible thing is, I probably could manage, if only...”

“Yes?” Douglas encouraged. Martin’s lips tried to form a smile and failed.

“It’s stupid. All I ever wanted was flying. And if I can’t have that after... after, then I’d rather be dead. Because where would I be? Trapped. For the rest of my life.”

Douglas tilted his head. “And he won’t let you? You think he'll be that possessive?”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it,” Martin said. “I mean, look at me.” He shrugged.

Douglas had looked, and did again. He estimated that there was nothing profitable that could be said at this point. Martin wouldn’t believe it if Douglas said that Martin had his own particular attractions. The silence stretched again.

"I argued with him."

Douglas lifted a brow. "Martin! You shock me. You, argue with a god?"

"I told him no. I told him he had to let me keep my job," Martin said.

"And he agreed?" Douglas was tickled at the wry smile that curved Martin's lips. “Well done. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes, but... but the oath was so ambiguous!” Martin’s fingers tightened on the water glass. “He could change his mind any time. Immortals aren’t like us! I don’t want to spend my life hoping he’ll change it back again. And why can’t I see him before the wedding? He must be so horrible that no one in their right mind wants him! The Oracle did say he was terrible.”

“Well, Aphrodite married Hephaestus and he’s no looker,” Douglas said. “Let’s give your groom the benefit of the doubt for the time being. As for the promise you extracted concerning your future in flight... well, it’s all of a piece. You wondered why you were chosen, yes? That’s your answer right there."

"What?"

"No, why. You asserted yourself. Somewhere inside that unassuming mortal body is something which made you worthy of notice. That's why you were chosen."

“Wonderful. I stand up for myself for once, and -”

“No, Martin,” Douglas said, voice sharp. “Pay attention. If the matter of your future in flying is ever in doubt, stand up for your rights.”

“Argue with a god? That should go well, I don’t think. I’ll be turned into a tree or something.”

“Well, it’s a poser,” Douglas admitted. “But there is that promise. You took a stand and managed to change his mind once. I’m sure you can do it again.”

"You think so?" Martin's lips were curved, but his eyes gave him away. Dread lurked in the grey depths. Douglas had to admire the brave front Martin was trying to maintain, as painful as it was to witness. Oh, well. Martin would have to go through with his nuptials and discover the truth about his spouse himself. He gave Martin his best trust-me smile.

"Martin, you may be capable of more than you realise. I, for one, expect that soon you'll be flying the friendly skies with me at MJN Air." Douglas flipped a mock salute. "My captain."

"Douglas, you don't have to call me that. We're not flying now." Martin looked away.

"As you wish." Douglas wrapped his hands around Martin's to guide the glass to his lips. "Now drink up."

Martin complied, and slid down with a sigh as Douglas flipped up the side of the bedspread to cover him. Douglas fetched more water and set it by the bed. Martin's eyes had closed, his auburn lashes ridiculously long on his cheeks. But they opened again as Douglas moved to switch off the lamp. "Don't. I don't want it dark. He’s dark."

"Erebus and Nyx will keep you safe," said Douglas but he dropped his hand. "Sleep. Don't forget the water in the morning."

"Right," said Martin. His voice was thready and almost inaudible, halfway to slumber. "G'night, Douglas."

Douglas walked to the door and looked back at the small figure Martin made curled under the bedspread. A faint snore was already beginning. Douglas huffed a silent laugh and kept his voice low.

"Good night, my captain."


	4. The Jitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's every reason why Martin should dread his wedding. Arthur is less than helpful reassuring him.

 

 

[The 6th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Arthur was watching morning children’s programmes when he heard the miserable retching sounds. Was that Skip? He tapped on the bathroom door and pushed it open.

“Oh, Skip, you look pretty bad,” he said. Martin was limp on the tiles, his pale face resting on the cool plastic of the toilet seat. Arthur cast about for something to help. “Can I get you anything? Breakfast? Coffee? Tea?”

Martin moaned, his watering eyes squinched shut. “Hemlock?”

“Dunno if they have that kind of tea but I’ll check. Be back in a tick!” He jogged off and was back in a trice with a tray.

Martin had been able to pry himself from the floor and was now lolling against his bed’s headboard. He did look dreadful. “I asked the kitchen whether they carried hemlock, but when I explained, they just gave me this.” He settled the tray bearing water, weak milky tea and dry toast on the bedside table. “Oh, and Mum gave me tablets. D’you have a headache?” Without waiting for a reply he crushed two tablets between two spoons and passed the resulting powder to Martin.

Martin took the spoon with a trembling hand and swallowed, chasing the bitterness with a gulp of the tea Arthur handed him. He shuddered, then sighed. “Thanks, Arthur.”

“No problem, Skip. I'm sorry you're not well. No one wants to be sick on their wedding day! Wow, just think of it, tonight you'll be married. And married to an immortal! That’ll be brilliant! Maybe you're queasy because you're excited? Sometimes I get so excited about something really brilliant it’s like my stomach is doing flip-flops.”

“Well yes, yes, my stomach is a bit queasy. But actually, Arthur...” Martin trailed off with a sigh. He was so frowny and grim that Arthur wanted to cheer him up.

“I'm so glad you invited us to your wedding. Weddings are brilliant! They are the best thing ever. Well, except there was this one that was not quite so brilliant. Actually, it sort of wasn’t a wedding because the groom didn't show.”

“Didn’t he? How - how awful.” Martin didn’t look as if it were awful, but he was a bit more cheerful. “What happened?”

“Well, Mum said he got cold feet and changed his mind, but the bride, Millie, cried and then got angry and shouted it was that bi... Well, there was this lady-friend? Of the groom’s. Um, they ran off together. It wasn’t very nice of him, I don’t like it when that happens. But we still had the food and punch and cake and no use letting it all go to waste. Plus  the band was there and ready to play so we had a party, even though no one got married. And Millie met a new chap, my friend Norbert, at one of my parties a few months later, so it all worked out brilliantly! I'm glad I introduced them.”

“Sounds like a perfect wedding to me,” murmured Martin, a small smile on his face.

“No, Skip, you got it all wrong. It wasn’t a wedding! Are you worried that your groom might not show up? I mean, he wasn’t here for the wedding feast or the bath. I bet he’s got cold feet too! Wow - a god getting cold feet! Can they get cold feet? But you don’t need to worry, Skip. I mean, he’s a god and they always get what they want, right?”

The smile slipped from Martin’s face. Arthur rushed onwards.

“But even if he does get cold feet we can still have a party with the food and dancing and everything. I know, we could make it a ‘welcome to MJN’ party for you and Douglas! That’d be brilliant! But I’m sure he’ll be there. Will your groom mind if we made the wedding celebration also a kind of welcome party for you and Douglas?”

Martin rubbed his face as if his head were hurting him again. “I don’t know, Arthur. When my groom comes, you can ask him.”

“All right!” Arthur beamed. He did love parties.

“I’m a bit tired now, Arthur.”

“Okay, Skip.”

Martin eyed him with the same expression his mother sometimes got. How did he _do_ that?

“So, thanks for the tea and toast.”

“You’re welcome!” There was a pause.

“I’m going to sleep now.”

“Right-o!” Arthur said, and slipped from the bed, happy he’d made Skip feel better.

 

 

Martin missed lunch, but recovered enough to watch telly with his family, talking over nothing in particular. It was comforting. Douglas disappeared to the hotel bar for ‘bird-watching,’ as he’d phrased it. Arthur had wanted to see the amazing birds that lived in a bar, but Carolyn had given Douglas a death-glare and sent him to the beach instead. All in all, not a horrible way to pass the time before his wedding. _And the end of my life as I know it._

Douglas had been back to his ridiculing self today, joking about catching Martin’s bouquet at the wedding. There was no hint that’d he ever anything been other than awful. It made Martin squirm with embarrassment  to remember what he’d said to Douglas in his drunken state. Martin hated that he’d been so vulnerable in front of the older man. Douglas, with his easy confidence and perfect... his perfect everything.

 _He ought to be an immortal’s consort, not me,_ Martin thought. _Marrying a nameless horror_. From what he’d seen of the man, Douglas would snark it to tears in no time. His thoughts must have shown on his face because when he glanced up from the telly, his mother’s eyes were on his, worried. He gave her a half-hearted smile and they turned back to the telly.

Carolyn breezed in, followed by a less-cheerful Arthur. “Well, I’ve news, though whether good or bad is up to you, Martin. I’ve just had a call from Douglas - he’s had to leave. There’s been a minor emergency and he won’t be able to attend tonight. A report from the police about people breaking into his house.”

“He’s not coming?”

Carolyn sniffed. “As to whether he’s been burgled or whether he’s just skulked off to be away from his co-workers, I can't say. It’s his day off, and I've no right to tell him to stay.” She appeared less than pleased at her lack of absolute authority over her wayward employee.

Martin grimaced. No, of course Douglas wouldn’t be here. Why should he be? Martin wasn’t a friend. He shoved down the treacherous pang of disappointment. “No, no, it’s fine. Please, thank him for me? For... for getting our rooms and arranging the dinner for us.” He rose from the sofa and squared his shoulders. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

 

 

Even with Arthur’s cheeriness and Carolyn’s conversational gambits, dinner was a subdued affair. Martin couldn’t bring himself to do more than toy with the pan-fried sea bass and fennel salad. He gave it up as a lost cause. Arthur was more than happy to eat Martin’s portion of dessert.

After dinner, Simon, Caitlin and his mother followed him to the small altar niche set up in the hotel’s reception area. The late afternoon sun lit several painted tiles of various gods meant to aid travellers, business people, and of course lovers. To his surprise, his mother lit an incense stick and placed it in a tray full of burnt stubs in front the image of Eros rather than Hera. Wordlessly Caitlin and Simon poured a little wine into the clay cup.

Martin cupped the wild rose he’d chosen from a vase and laid it before the god. He had no prayers left, only a repeated, _‘Please, please!’_ The lack of thunderclaps, heavenly light or booming voices came as no surprise. Why had he even expected an answer to his prayers? He ought to have known better. He should have been praying all his life that the gods took no notice of him instead.

His shoulders sagged and he went upstairs. The ritual pre-nuptial bath had to be taken alone, as his spouse was absent. Martin towelled off the water and wiped the mirror. His face was drawn and tired. He debated whether he should cut his hair short to indicate his purity and finish the traditional rites. Best not, he decided. His virginity had been lost years ago in a short-lived relationship. To placate any gods watching, he shaved, snipped one curl with a pair of nail scissors and left it in the sink.

Simon was laying out his suit when Martin emerged wrapped in a towel. “You should've let me buy you a new suit, Martin. Monster or immortal, no one is going to be impressed by this old thing.”

“It - it doesn’t matter. No need to waste your money,” Martin said. “I thought it rather fit the situation.” The suit was black and several years old. He’d last worn it at his dad’s funeral.

Simon’s moustache twitched as though there were several things he’d like to say, a few of them quite sharp judging by his expression. But he only clasped Martin’s shoulder in a way meant to be heartening and left him alone.

Martin dressed, fingers fumbling with the tie his mother had picked out. He looked at himself in the bureau mirror and sighed. His hair was waving into fluffy curls from his bath. The suit was too tight across the shoulders. The over-wide tie around his thin neck just looked ridiculous. Martin pulled it off in annoyance. He reached for the matching handkerchief and paused, hand hovering. A thick brown envelope with a folded note taped to it sat on the bureau. He pulled the paper off and unfolded it.

 

 

_Martin,_

_Having had to clear out my locker when I left my former employer a bit precipitously, I left my box of belongings in the boot of my car. My laziness is your gain._

_Though it's outre to give one’s own belongings as a wedding gift, I thought you might appreciate these. I won’t be needing them in my current position. I understand you’ll need them after the honeymoon._

_Douglas Richardson_

 

 

Curious now, Martin lifted the bulky envelope and tore it open. Something fell out and he grabbed at the flash of gold. Epaulettes. Captain’s epaulettes.

The stiff edges of the rectangles cut into his hands until they threatened to bend as he gripped them. His breath came harsh and fast. He was closer to tears than he’d been since this whole nightmare had started.

Was Douglas mocking him? He knew, he _knew_ Martin was terrified of what was to come. ‘Here, _captain_ , enjoy these while you can. Good luck coming down from Olympus to fly aeroplanes again. If your beast of a husband doesn’t eat you first.’

Martin rubbed the back of his shaking hand across his eyes. No, that wasn't fair, he was getting worked up again. Douglas had been more than kind last night. It wasn’t Douglas’ fault that his present had touched the nerve-centre of Martin’s greatest fear.

He opened his palm again on Douglas’ gift. Captain. Douglas was saying... he was saying that he thought Martin would be a captain. That he’d fly again. That Martin would be okay.

_Is that what he meant?_

Would he be okay?

He lifted an epaulette to his shoulder. The gold braid gleamed dully against the black of his jacket. He raised his chin and looked at himself in the mirror. “Captain Crieff,” he said to his reflection. “Of MJN Air. Captain Martin Crieff.” He straightened his shoulders. There. That was better.

“Arthur!” he shouted.

Arthur poked his head in the door. “You called, Skip? Wow, you look nice! Aren’t you going to wear white? I thought all brides wore white and a veil. Though I now I think about it, brides wear dresses. And you’re a man. Is there a special name for man-brides? I can’t remember. Still, I’m sure your groom will like -”

“Yes, fine, I am a man and this is my wedding dress - er, suit. Arthur, can you help me?”

“I love helping,” Arthur asserted.

Martin beamed at him, feeling better than he had in three days.

“Great. I need safety pins or one of those little hotel sewing kits. Oh, and a different tie. Would you mind finding them for me?”

 


	5. A (Wedding) Night to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is swept off his feet, literally. It's not as great as it sounds.

 

 

[The 6th day of Boedromion, passing into the 7th as the sun sets, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Rather than share a lift to the cliff-side, Martin expressed a desire to walk. For all he knew, it was the last one he'd have. With his family. And two kind-hearted strangers who had unwittingly hired the unluckiest mortal on this plane of existence.

The hotel lent them torches and they set off, Martin linking his elbow through his mother's. A few people gave their group odd looks. Well, they looked more like a funeral procession than a wedding party. Which made Martin, with his shadowed eyes and black suit the chief mourner. _Ha, ha._

The twenty minute walk was... refreshing, Martin decided. Yes, cool and… nice and... _Oh gods I'm going to die, aren't I, I'm walking to my death_.. _.!_ He kept dragging his mind back from its multiple attempts to dive into a whirlpool of panicked speculation. As a consequence, Martin found himself making random and disjointed comments about the weather and the sunset as they walked. Judging from his mother's replies, she was just as distracted.

The heavy scent of sea and grasses was cloying. The evening was waning to deep shades of dark blue, pricked by the faint light of stars in the firmament. The wavering cones of their torches illuminated small sections of the cliff-side trail, aided not at all by the fingernail sliver of the new moon.

Arthur, whose natural ebullience Martin doubt could be dampened by anything less than a thunderbolt from Zeus himself, chattered away. “Gosh, this is the strangest wedding procession I’ve ever been in! Not that I don’t like it. I quite like the torches. It’s just like camping and telling ghost stories in the tent! Mr. Crieff, do you know any good ones?”

“No, I don’t,” Simon answered. Caitlin nudged Martin, her mouth tucked in an expression half-way between laughter and horror. Wendy smiled.

“Arthur’s a dear boy, trying to cheer us up, aren’t you Arthur?”

“Why, do you need cheering up? Aren’t you glad Martin’s getting married? Oh, I know!” Arthur’s torchlight bobbled. “Flowers! That will make everyone happy, and make this more like a wedding! Martin, would you like me to pick you a bouquet?”

“Arthur...” Carolyn said in the tones of one who too often had to restrain her son’s ebullience.

“Oh, let him,” Wendy said. “Don’t wander off the path, though, dear. It could be dangerous.”

“Right-o, Mrs. Crieff!”

By following the directions Hermes had emailed, they found themselves on a bare section of cliff that extended in a shallow bluff. Exclamations came from Arthur now and then as he hunted the grass. Martin checked his watch. Twenty minutes after sunset. Good. He’d timed their arrival so they didn’t have to wait long or give him time to lose his precarious calm or what little dinner he'd managed. His stomach churned with dread.

Everyone looked at each other. “Now what?” Caitlin expressed their doubts aloud. “Just kick our heels and hope he turns up?”

“If he turns up,” Simon said, but the old sarcasm was dead.

“He will,” Martin said, his tone flat. He wasn’t that lucky, he knew.

“Aren’t any of your husband’s friends coming? How’re they going to find us?” Arthur asked. He’d wandered back with green-stained hands.

Carolyn sighed. “If a god can’t find a group of people standing with torches at the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover _at a spot they specified_ _,_ well! I’ll never waste another drop of wine on prayers again.”

Caitlin’s teeth flashed in the smirk of a born traffic warden. “No point in asking for heavenly direction in our lives if even gods get lost, right?“

“We have to trust that they made no mistake with Martin,” his mother said, sweet and staunch as ever. Martin squeezed her hand then let go.

“Well,” he said, and coughed. He checked his watch again. “Well, it’s... I guess it’s time.” Giving a speech at this point was well beyond him. He hugged Caitlin hard. With Simon he did that awkward one armed hug and handshake thing that men often do in lieu of heartfelt displays. He turned to his guests. “Carolyn, Arthur, thank you for coming.”

Carolyn shook his hand with evident sincerity. “Good fortune, Martin. Remember - one week for the honeymoon. Don’t forget.”

Martin began to nod but found his nose buried in Arthur’s shirt before he completed the motion. His breath whooshed out as Arthur embraced him. “Best of luck, Skip! I didn’t get enough for a bouquet, but here.” Martin gasped for air and found that Arthur had pressed a single flower into his hand, small and sweet. A clover. In the clover, for comfort and prosperity, or so the saying went. Ha. Well, Arthur meant well. He gave Arthur a lopsided smile and tucked it into his shirt breast pocket.

“Thanks. Would you hold my jacket for me?”

Arthur grinned in the pleasure of a shared secret about to be revealed and helped peel away the jacket. Carolyn huffed a laugh and Caitlin murmured with a hint of fond exasperation, "Oh, Martin."

Martin brushed at the epaulettes that showed against his white shirt in the darkness. He shifted his shoulders and stood, keeping his hands open and relaxed by his thighs with an effort of will. "How do I look?"

"Like a captain," Simon said, his voice over-loud. His sister nodded agreement. Martin gulped, grateful for the covering dark hiding his expression. His mother pulled him in for an embrace and kiss.

"Take care, Martin love. The gods will be hearing from me if you aren't happy."

"Thanks, Mum. Love you," Martin said. He swallowed the spiky ball in his throat. "I... I’ll see you -” The words dried up in his throat. He stepped away and stood a few metres from the edge, as instructed. His heart began to thump in painful lurches. Nothing happened, except a low mist began to rise as the soil gave up its heat to the cool night.

“Well, at least you’re wearing white, Skip!” Arthur said. “I wonder when your groom will come? Do you think your groom will like your epaulettes? I think they look very smart.”

Simon sighed and covered his face with one hand.

Martin was growing rattled. “I didn’t wear them for him, Arthur!”

Arthur looked surprised. “Oh. You don’t look very happy about it.”

“Arthur -” Martin looked at his open expression and checked the sharp retort on his tongue. “I just want to remember that even if... even if I... I want to remember that I’m a captain.”

“Sure thing, Skip!” Arthur said. “Wow, it’s getting really misty isn’t it? I thought it’d be all clear tonight. I can’t even see the constellation Hercules any more!” Indeed, thickening mist was curling up from the grass and the edge of the bluff. “I can hardly see you! What if you can’t see your groom when he comes? Gosh, he could be anyone. Like, imagine if a monster came and married you. Is your groom ugly, Skip? He must be awful. Are you scared, Skip?”

Martin tried to moisten his dry mouth. “No, I’m not scared.” It came out sort of quavery. And scared. Everyone had disappeared, his torch lighting a wall of white as he turned, looking for - for whatever was coming. His toe kicked a small rock and it rolled and then pattered away, clicking as it fell some great distance. Oh gods, he didn’t want to die by falling off a cliff! His shirt clung to his skin with moisture and he shivered, standing stock still again.

“Arthur, remember what I said about tact?” said Carolyn in a long-suffering tone.

“No, isn’t that what ponies wear? There aren’t any ponies. It’d be the best wedding if there were!”

“Yes, I agree,” said a smooth voice in Martin’s ear. Martin gasped and dropped his torch. “Ponies would be an amazing addition to every wedding. Sorry, everyone, must dash.” An arm wound behind Martin’s back, another behind his knees and they were airborne. Martin made a noise between a yelp and a shriek. Blind, he clawed and grasped at his kidnapper with desperate hands. “Oh, I say,” said the voice. “That’s rather sweet, but save it for your husband. We’ll be there in a tick. Not a real wedding until you’ve entered his abode, eh? The name’s Zephyrus, by the way. And you must be the inestimable Martin?”

Martin made an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat. He was beyond caring about putting up a good front and clung harder to the unseen figure. There were shouts from below. Faintly Arthur’s voice came up to him.

“Good luck, Skip! See you soon!”

“Well, this is rather a let-down. I take a passenger this one time and he’s beyond the power of speech.” Zephyrus waited, the expectant silence filled with the rush of wind.

The air was growing colder, the speed of their passage cutting through Martin’s clothing like icy blades. Oh, ye gods, what altitude were they going to? How fast? The pressure on his unprotected eardrums shifted. He heard a pop. Dizzy, he tried to dig his fingers in harder, but they’d somehow turned into rubbery sausages tenuously attached to his hands. Speak? He tried to shape words but found himself gasping at air that had become much too thin. Purple spots danced, swirled, and began to swell in his vision. His hands loosened and fell away. His head lolled.

“Martin? Are you well?” Zephyrus glanced at his slack burden. He sighed. “Damnation.”

 

Zephyrus was most apologetic as he passed the slight figure over to Eros' eager arms. "Poor lad’s out like a light, I'm afraid. Most people I have pressed up against me faint from more pleasant reasons. I suppose it was an interesting having someone do it from terror."

Eros' grip tightened around his limp burden. "He's freezing!"

“Is that the problem? Whoops.” Zephyrus lifted a shoulder. "How was I to know not to go so high? I'm not in the habit of ferrying mortals, clouds are my usual speed. And what with one thing and another, I thought it would be better to get him here on the fastest wind. Lad nearly crushed my ribs before he passed out! Stronger than he looks. I’m sure he’ll be fine."

Eros pursed his lips at the casual disregard for his wan spouse. Most red-heads were pale but Martin was ghost white, aside from violet smudges beneath each eye. But his pulse was steady. He brushed a hand over a small lump in Martin’s shirt and withdrew a crushed flower. Clover. He smiled down at the little bloom, then coughed to clear away impending sentiment. "Fine. You have my thanks, my cousin."

"We're even then? Wonderful." A breeze began to play, fluttering Zephyrus' trouser legs. He grinned a wide white smile, hair beginning to lift in the stiffening draught. "Can't say he's what I expected."

Eros grimaced, pressing Martin's face against his neck as small pieces of grit began to fly. "No, me either."

Zephyrus spread his arms and began to drift up and away. "New things surprise me so seldom. It was refreshing meeting your Martin, even under the circumstances." His laughing voice drifted down from the darkness. "Congratulations on your joining, cousin."

 

 

Eros leaned over the prone figure on the bed with fondness and worry. The room was in complete darkness - heavy draperies pulled shut over windows and the bed, door closed. His immortal eyes were able to easily see his love's pale face, red-gold hair mussed from the flight. Eros rubbed a hand over the ache in his chest. _Damn Pothos and his bolts_. Martin looked sweet in his unconscious state, but Eros longed to have him awake and speaking.

"Martin," he said, voice soft. He smoothed an errant lock of hair from the smooth brow. "Martin, wake up."

Martin's eyelids flickered. Eros watched his lips part. Soon those soft beauties would press his own, part in desire beneath his. He smiled. His bright spark, his Martin. "Martin," he crooned. "Darling, tell me you're fine. Don't make me worry, hm?"

Eros leaned over his spouse and drew in a breath. Martin smelled of the wind and night, underlain by a simple clean scent. Soap, Eros, decided. He supposed it was soppy of him to enjoy that Martin didn't come to him perfumed and perfectly groomed. Martin's chest rose and fell in a deep breath. "Martin." Eros patted his cheek, then cupped it, thumb brushing a high cheekbone.

Ah, Martin was coming to. Would he look sweet and confused, wondering who had awoken him and where he was? Dreamily he envisioned his Titian love, roused by his lover’s dulcet tones, lifting languid russet lashes and smiling.

He brought his face closer to Martin's - much more of this charming Sleeping Beauty routine and he would just have to kiss his love awake. Such a hardship. "I know you're in there. Don't make me -"

Eros might have known better, had he been in his right mind and not dart-stung.

Martin's eyes sprang open. The next thing Eros saw was a blinding burst of stars as Martin lurched upright, head connecting with unfortunate yet unerring aim into Eros' nose.

 

 

Martin fell back on his pillows pressing both hands over his forehead. Ow, ow, ow! What had he hit his head on? He heard a thump and muffled swearing. His eyes widened but there was nothing but darkness. Someone was in the room -? Someone was in the room! Where was he?

His arms swept out to the sides in frantic exploration - blanket, sheets, bed. Bed! Bed where? How big was this damned bed, where were the edges?  He flailed, heart climbing his throat. _Never mind that, who is in the room and where was a weapon_ , his mind screamed at him. He squirmed away from the noise, heels slipping on sheets until his back hit something, a headboard or wall. He grabbed the only loose thing his blind fingers encountered and brandished it before him. “Stay away! You stay away or I’ll - I’ll -”

“Smother me to death with that deadly pillow?” The voice was resonant and rich. _Not a mortal voice_ , one still-functioning part of his brain told Martin. He wasn’t sure how he knew that but it sounded - more. As if all his life he’d been hearing in mono over a tinny pocket radio, and now had full stereo sound. The stranger went on in deepest sarcasm.  “Force it down my throat and choke me? Rip it open and hope a strange yet rare allergy will cause me to have one great, fatal sneeze?” The voice was muffled and sounded thick, as if the speaker had a cold. “Hades’ tits, but you’ve a hard head. Ugh, I think my nose is bleeding.”

Martin’s mouth opened and closed a few times, goldfish-like.

“Though if you insist on another go-round, dare I hope it will be bolsters at ten paces? I’d quite enjoy a pillow fight, though now I’m reconsidering whether I’m up to your weight.”

“You... are you... are you my...?”

“Your suffering bridegroom? Yes, I am. Is this a new mortal custom I’m not aware of, trying to flatten noses on the wedding night? Kinky even for me, but let’s not do that again, hm? Delightful though new experiences are for an immortal my age, it’s rather painful.” There was a rustling noise. “Oh, I think it’s stopped bleeding.”

“Uh, sorry about that.”

“Well, perhaps it wasn’t my best move, looming over you.” The voice sounded less sarcastic and more philosophical.

Martin strained his eyes, trying to see where the voice was coming from. Oh, gods, he really _had_ married darkness. He didn’t want to think about the fire part. Or creature, definitely not creature. Martin became aware of how his skin was prickling in goosebumps. His bare skin. A thin robe had come undone, twisting up around his waist and threatening to manacle his arms. What? “Why am I naked?”

There was a long pause, while Martin flushed all over. Of course. He was naked because this was his... this was his _husband._ Even so, he rather liked to know when strangers were stealing his clothes!

“You were chilled. Your garments were damp through with moisture. Those _are_ silk sheets, you know.”

“Oh. Um.”

The end of the bed dipped and Martin drew his legs up to his chest with a thin squeak.  “And you are wearing a robe, though I see it has slipped charmingly askew. Not that I wasn’t eager to bare you to my eyes, Martin, even if was only to dry you with warm towels.” The voice all but purred his name and Martin’s stomach flipped over. Oh, gods above and below, this was it, wasn’t it? He was about to be ravished by a... by a… and he’d just nutted him in the _nose_ , and oh ye gods -

“Wait, you have a nose?” he blurted, then pressed the pillow to his face in mortification. A shout of laughter followed his words.

“What kind being do you think I am? No, don’t tell me. Poor Martin.” The bed sagged as the other moved closer. “You must have been worried sick. You've nothing to fear.”

Martin lifted his head. He blinked hard but still saw nothing. “Can I turn on the light? It’s a bit unnerving being in the dark with...” _A stranger,_ his mind supplied. “An immortal.”

“I’m afraid not.” The voice was kind but firm. “That is forbidden. You are free to pursue your flying as we’d agreed, and in return you may not know or look upon my true face.”

“But that’s stupid! Why not?” Martin burst out, then thumped his head into cotton. Idiot, here he was arguing again with the all-powerful! Douglas was wrong, he was going to get himself cursed or killed if he kept this up.

A poke at the pillow had him lifting his head again. “I will not give you the reason at this time; I require your faith and trust in this. It is important. Though,” the voice said musingly, “if you do manage to guess my identity, I’ll confirm it.”

“You’re not even going to tell me your _name_?” Martin’s voice squeaked into the upper registers on the last word. “This isn’t fair!”

There was a dry chuckle. “You have no idea. I’m just balancing things up.” A warm breath touched Martin’s cheek. His head whipped round but there was nothing to see. “You need not be afraid of the dark nor of myself, Martin. There are other senses to use, after all. I promise I will not harm you.”

Fingers curled around Martin’s wrist, strong and warm. He tensed, body trying its best to force itself through the headboard. Ye gods, he knew he was acting like a frightened virgin, but for the moment his muscles sustained their rebellion against his commands.

“Will you not touch me?” The voice had a piteous edge that Martin mistrusted. _For the gods’ sake, do something!_ He forced his hands to loosen their grip on the pillow and allowed the hand to lift his arm. His fingers passed over a firm chin, brushed the softness of a pouty lower lip and the Cupid’s bow above. The lips moved and a small kiss pressed against his finger pads. Martin’s hand jerked in surprise. “Sorry,” the other said. “Couldn’t help myself. Don’t stop. Please.”

It was the ‘please,’ that gave Martin the courage to go on with his explorations. Gingerly he touched a lightly stubbled cheek. Not the cheek of a youth - this was a full-blooded man. The edge of his thumb skipped over the contours of a nose. A strong nose, straight and... oh. There was a crust at the edge of a nostril. Blood. _Well, you did nut your husband the immortal, Martin, well done, a great way to start._ He began to pull away but a hand caught his and pressed it back into place. "Don't stop," the voice said, and was Martin imagining it or was the voice thickened? Eyelashes fluttered against his fingertips. "You see? Just a man. No scales, no sharp teeth."

Martin’s heart thrummed in the back of his throat as he opened his mouth and exhaled in relief. No, not a monster, oh thank the gods. Not even ugly - rather the opposite. “You.. you’re real.” The muscles beneath his palm flexed into a smile and Martin’s cheeks heated. _State the obvious, well done._ “No, I meant - is this actually you?” Immortals usually took on aspects when dealing with humans.

“Yes, tis I.”

Martin grasped his way down the other’s neck as if to check his corporeality, feeling smooth skin and firm shoulder muscles. “Is that why I’m not to see you? In case I’m, er, overcome?” He thought of Semele, consumed by fire at the sight of Zeus’ true form and shuddered. There were reasons the images of gods were recorded in paint and sculpture - film and modern equipment just wouldn’t record them. And then there were the sensitive unfortunates who went half-mad upon viewing a god’s aspect. It seldom happened but Martin didn’t think he wanted to take the chance. _Right. Dark might be best, after all_. Sanity was good.

“Your perspicacity is wonderful,” said his husband. _That doesn’t answer my question,_ Martin thought, but there was a hand now resting on his bent knee, gently urging his leg to straighten out.

“You’re not going to um, er...” Martin swallowed. The hand was moving in soothing circles and it was quite distracting. He bit and his lip and got it out. “Come home one night as a horse or eagle or something?”

The hand stilled. “Do you want me to?” The rich voice had an edge of surprise.

“No!” Martin said. Oh, _gods_ , would the bed just do him a favour and swallow him up?

“Thanks be,” said the voice, amused again. “I’m not Zeus, you know. No, Martin, I’m afraid you will have to settle for just this. What you have beneath your hands is what you get. Just me. And you can use two hands, you know. Your mouth, even.”

Martin took a shaky breath. This was it. He was in his husband’s abode, he was naked - well, mostly naked, and now it was time to get on with it. It shouldn’t be too terrible. What he’d explored so far had been quite… normal. Fit. Fanciable, even. He could do this. He _had_ to. He shifted closer. Shaking, his other hand lifted, brushed an arm and came to rest. The rise and fall of ribs as his husband took a deep breath bolstered his courage. Maybe he was as nervous as Martin? He leaned closer.

The treacherous robe under him slipped against the silk sheets. Overbalanced, he fell against his husband, mashing his mouth and teeth painfully against a chin. Hands grasped his shoulders to steady him. “Easy, sweet one.” It sounded like his husband was smiling. Martin tried again, lifting his head and tightening his grip to pull him closer. But the damned pillow was squashed between them, thwarting his attempt at bodily contact.

Martin’s moment of bravado dissolved in humiliation. He shoved and wriggled, trying to escape. “Martin?” The voice was confused now. He pushed away, robe tangling around him. Gods, he had to get free, this wasn't going right -

He slithered back and there - of course - was the edge of the bed. He fell, yelping as his elbow cracked against the floor and went numb. Perfect, just bloody _perfect._

“But perfection is boring,” said his husband, and oh gods, had Martin spoken out loud? He had. He sat up and rubbed his bruised elbow, dignity and robe alike drooping from him.

The mattress shifted. “Martin. Are you all right? What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing. I'm fine, I mean.” Martin had two choices - give up, let the pained watering in his eyes overflow and beg to be set free. He may as well kiss flying goodbye forever and enjoy the rest of his mortal life as a weed or an ant for defying an immortal. He wasn't cut out for this - this _god-pleasing_ business.

Incongruously, the memory of Douglas’ voice came to him - 'Something made you worthy of notice, that's why you were chosen.’' The band of tightness constricting his chest loosened a bit.

“You're sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine!” Martin snapped. “Er, I mean. Sorry. It’s too dark. I, um, fell. The sheets are slippery.”

“I like the sound of slippery,” said the voice, and was that relief he heard? Martin wished he could see. “But again, perhaps not one of my better choice, the silk sheets.”

“They're soft. Quite, um, quite nice,” Martin offered. He steeled himself and stripped away the robe, groping for the edge of the bed. “Anyway. Can we just - er. Help me up?”

“Here.” There was a brush of fingers. Martin took the proffered hand and used it to guide his way up on the bed, thighs brushing as he knelt between his husband’s knees.. “Oh,” his husband said in soft surprise.

“What?” His nerves were winding tight again. He felt naked. Very naked. In a bed with another unclothed… being.

“I'm just appreciating the view, bold thing. Perhaps we can dispense with the robe in future. I rather like you clothed in air.” The hand still holding his stroked a thumb suggestively.

“You can see me?” The outraged squeak was out before Martin could stop himself. “That's not -”

“Not fair, yes, that’s been established, but darkness _is_ my element, Martin. And may I just say how pretty -”

 _Oh my gods, no._ Before the sentence finished, Martin reached, caught two arms, slid his hands up to the grinning face and guided it to his own. This time his lips landed in the right area and with more determination than ardour he applied himself to the task. The smiling lips softened against his own with a sigh. Arms came around him, pressing him against a well-muscled chest. Martin angled his head, bumped noses and corrected. What next? Oh, tongues, yes, that had to be the next step. He touched the seam of his husband’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. The lips parted, inviting. He took a deep breath and forged on, feeling the press of tongue against his own. Hands swept up and down his back.

His husband made a low noise of appreciation as his hands found and cupped Martin’s buttocks. Martin’s mouth stilled as his mind scrambled. What next, what next? Hands! His fingers had found their way into silky hair and were holding the strands in a death grip. He relaxed their hold, making an apologetic sound into his husband’s mouth. Uh. He traced an eyebrow with a trembling thumb, drew back and smoothed the pad over the sensuous - _sensuous? Why had that word popped into his head, he’d never even seen his_ \- mouth. That same ( _sensuous, mobile, slick_ ) mouth kissed it before drawing it in, tongue flickering against skin in a way that gave Martin pause. Should he -? He had better. With his free hand he touched firm abdominals, nails catching on skin as he reached further.

He didn’t reach his goal before his husband groaned and lifted Martin bodily, settling him so their torsos were in full contact. There was the unmistakable sign of the immortal’s interest pressing against Martin’s balls. Martin froze. _Oh, Hades._

His husband had also stilled. “Martin. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t… seem entirely pleased to be here.” The tone sounded as if it sought reassurance. _Why? He’s an immortal!_ Martin’s stomach turned over.

“Erm,” he said.

“You have done this before? I mean, I never ascribed to the standards that insist on virginal weddings. It’s better if at least one person knows what they are doing, and fantastic if both do.”

“Uh,” Martin said. His face was hot.

“Is it because I’m male? It’s just that I can’t help noticing that you aren’t -”

“No,” Martin managed to articulate. “I mean, yes, I have, you know. Had sex. With men. And women too,” he added in a burst of honesty.

“Oh, that’s good.” A kiss was pressed against his mouth, followed by a huff of laughter. “Though a certain bubble of fantasy wherein I instruct you the arts of love between men has just been burst.”

“Er,” said Martin. “You could. Teach me.” His self-preservation instinct kicked in and he blurted, “But I am happy to be here, really.”

“Little liar. You’re shaking, and you’ve gone goose-flesh all over.”

Apparently one could see red even in the dark if one was furious enough. Pushed to the edge of his endurance, Martin bit his lip to stem the words but they burst out. “I am trying to _please_ you!”

“No need to shout,” said his husband mildly. “You want to... please me.”

“Yes! This whole thing is ridiculous! I mean, did you even see me before you picked me? I’m not clever or… or witty, or even handsome, how could anyone expect me to be a consort? Gods, fine, I could see the sense of it when I thought I was marrying a monster from the Abyss, no great loss to the world if I’m sacrificed or whatever but… but… You promised I’d still get to fly if I pleased you and for Eros’ sake, I am _trying!_ ” Martin gulped for air, aflame with his frustration.”

“Ah.”

“So... so if this just some elaborate joke, just turn me into a house plant already, or _let me get on with it!_ ” To his fury, his husband was shaking with silent laughter. Martin could feel a shriek building in his chest. He opened his mouth but a hand covered it.

“Shush, darling. Now, let’s clear up one thing. I did see you before I chose you, though you won’t remember seeing me. And if I feel you to be a worthy consort, then you are. _Ita est, verum est,_ and all that. And although I’m having doubts at the moment about your intelligence, I must say that your physical qualities are entirely enticing.”

Martin’s jaw would have dropped had it not been for the hand against his mouth.

“I suppose others found you lacking? Well, that'll cut down on the droves of admiring competition trying to steal you away.”

In spite of himself, Martin snorted. His husband laughed. “That’s better. Now, while I’m impressed with your determination to see the letter of the contract fulfilled, I fear you are missing the point.” His hand moved to cup Martin’s jaw.

“But -” Martin said. A mouth covered his, and oh - he’d been doing the kissing all wrong, Martin realised before his thoughts fled. This kiss was lazy, taking the time to explore, with the perfect amount of teasing nips alternating with slow strokes of tongue. “Uh,” Martin said when his mouth was released. What had they been talking about?

“You please me by being yourself, Martin,” the voice said, the rich depth curling around Martin’s hind-brain. “Even when you’re being wrong-headed about some things. So, continue, er, being yourself. But without turning yourself inside-out making so sure I’m happy that you take no pleasure in the act yourself, hm? Consider: I’ve got a delectable mortal in my bed who is determined to seduce me, the night is long and I can see certain parts of you are now taking an interest.” He shifted against Martin’s half-hard cock. “How can I not be pleased by that?”

Martin blinked, fuzzy-headed. “All - all right.”

The hand had curled around his neck, and another was now pulling on Martin’s hips in slow rhythm, rubbing his cock between them. “All right?” his husband queried.

“Yes,” Martin said. A particularly sweet movement dragged a groan from him. “M-more than all right. All of that. Yes.”

“Lovely,” his husband said. “Perhaps I should have done this from the start, but never mind. I’d no idea I was marrying such a complicated creature. You won’t mind, will you?”

 _Mind what?_ Martin’s arms had found their around his husband, his hips beginning to shift in tiny movements. “Mm. What?”

“Oh, good.”

Martin’s half-formed question drifted apart as his mouth was captured again. His world narrowed down to sensation - the roll of his hips encouraged by the hand at the small of his back, the small thrusts of the erection sliding against his cleft, that mouth. It promised all sorts of erotic delights and satiation, the tongue flicking in time to the rocking of their bodies. Martin scarcely noticed as he was laid back on the bed, only aware that cool air was washing skin that had been covered by a warm body. He made a complaining noise and was answered by a low laugh.

“You little beauty, don’t make me rush.”

The bed dipped beside him. Martin rolled on his side to face the source of the voice and arched with a gasp as a hand encircled his aching erection. A  stroke smoothed down the shaft, slipped up and over the moist tip and down again, maddeningly slow. A thumb toyed with the frenulum and Martin found his hands were twisting the silk sheets hard enough to fray them. “Oh. Oh, Eros,” he groaned. There was a shaky breath and his husband’s forehead touched his.

“Yes. That’s it.  Don’t hold back anything, let me hear you.”

“I want... Can I? I’m going to touch you now.”

“That would - ah! Please me very much,” the deep voice said, voice catching as Martin found himself with a palmful of hot flesh. Oh, gods, this was perfect. His hand fell into a familiar rhythm. His breath grew ragged as his husband worked his own erection with consummate skill. Martin could feel the puffs of air against his face as the immortal breathed open-mouthed. Frantic, he shifted closer to press their lengths together, his gasp of relief mirrored by his lover as their hands clasped around them. He knew he was making half-voiced noises, knew his husband was drinking in the sounds but he couldn’t stop and was past caring. The world had shrunk to blind need and their moving hands. He was losing focus, body tightening.

“Oh, gods. I’m going to -”

“Yes, don’t stop. Don’t you dare hold back.” His husband nudged his head back and claimed his lips, tongue making one quick lascivious dart into Martin’s slack mouth, his hand over Martin’s quickening its pace. It was enough. Martin stiffened as he came, his hoarse cry swallowed by the mouth covering his. He blinked away the sparks. There was a murmur in his ear. “Just like that, you lovely bright thing, perfect…”

“Oh,” Martin said. “But… you -” Their hands had loosened and fallen away. Martin reached for his husband and felt a slick hand cover his own.

“Yes, there, darling,” the voice groaned. Martin squinched his eyes in a convulsive shudder. _That voice!_

“Oh ye gods above and below,” he breathed. He had his hand on an immortal’s cock, was wanking him - or rather, his hand was being used to wank. How had he come to this point? Why was it so - so _sexy_?

His husband and Martin felt the pulsing under his fingers as his husband came with an inarticulate shout. The hard grip on his hand relaxed and his arm sagged. In the aftermath, Martin felt drugged and boneless. They lay still, breathing slowing. After a time, Martin gathered enough nerve and energy to lift his head. Their noses bumped. His husband flinched.

 _Oh, good one, Martin_ , he thought. He’d forgotten about the bloody nose. _Add more insult to the injury you already gave him_. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Continue with what you were doing and all is forgiven,” the voice rumbled. Martin smiled, a little embarrassed knowing that while he could see nothing but darkness, his husband had no doubt observed his every expression. And had enjoyed it, apparently. Martin kissed him, soft and a bit hesitant. His lover lay pliant, receiving the embrace with a quiet hum. Martin grew bolder. He wiped his hand on the sheets and laid it on his husband’s chest. But when he tried to shift closer, the immortal pulled away and sat up.

Martin’s skin chilled with the loss. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just getting something to clean us up.” There was the click of a drawer and rustling, followed by the sound of cloth over skin. “These wipes are pure mortal genius for moments like these,” the rich voice observed. “One would think they were designed for intimate after-care.”

“For babies, actually.” Oh gods, he may as well give up an intelligent conversation. Martin flinched, mouth twitching as a cool tissue passed over his stomach.

“Are you ticklish? How delightful.”

“Just a little.” Martin caught his lower lip between his teeth as the ministrations made their way down, but his husband’s touch was impersonal, moving his flaccid penis out of the way to mop up semen. It wasn’t what Martin was expecting. He had to know. “Um. Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all,” said the voice in a tone of relaxed contentment. Martin found his sticky hand resting in his husband’s, the cloth drawing a path of coolness down each finger. “But I can see you’ve some bee in your bonnet, you complicated little thing. Out with it.”

“Well…” Martin bit the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to phrase it. “Don’t you want to, um, ‘consummate’ your - I mean, our marriage on our wedding night?”

The wiping had paused. “This should be good,” Martin heard him mutter in an undertone. His husband went on in a louder tone, “I am almost loathe to ask in spite of myself - but what do you mean, dearest?”

The endearment, so casually and naturally used, flustered Martin. “I mean, well. I, I, what we did was just - just fun stuff before the real thing, wasn’t it? That is, it was great. I hadn’t expected, well you know -”

“I am agog as to what lurid fantasies your mind cooked up before the wedding, but perhaps it’s best to save those for another night. Your spouse is not what you imagined. I gathered that much. A happy surprise, I do hope.” The voice sounded both irritated and amused now. Martin gulped.

“You were wonderful, I mean, I expec- no, never mind that, I mean, you are an immortal with years of experience. And not a monster! Sorry about that. So I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything bad. In bed. Or out of it. But, but -” Martin could feel the flush creeping up his neck. “You didn’t… you haven’t. You _know_.”

“Do I?”

“Heavens above and below!” Martin snapped. “You know what I mean! Isn’t real sex a requirement?”

“Oh, sweet skies.” He heard the creak of the bed as his husband leaned over as if to support himself. The back of Martin’s hand was pressed to a forehead. His husband was making small wheezing sounds. Was he in pain? “Never change, darling,” his husband gasped. “You are utterly perfect.”

 _He was laughing, the bastard!_ Martin stuttered. But before he could voice his indignation he was swept up in strong arms and kissed between chuckles. Martin allowed his annoyance to be pulled from him each as his husband quieted his amusement and turned his attention more thoroughly to his work. Each kiss grew deeper until Martin was flushing from entirely new reasons. At last that devastating mouth drew away, leaving Martin as limp as a Regency heroine, his thoughts dissolved in the midst of low-grade arousal.

“You gorgeous idiot,” his husband said fondly. “Sex is what we just _did_. Penetration doesn’t always come into it, though I’m looking forward to having your delectable arse against my belly while I roger you silly.” Martin’s throat emitted a strange gurgle at the crude words. It shouldn’t have sounded as hot as it did, but apparently that rich voice could read ingredients lists off food packaging and turn Martin on, he was finding. “You mortals and your funny ideas about sex.”

“Uh. Sorry,” Martin managed.

“You know I’m quite old by your standards. I’m flattered you think I’m up for another go.”

Martin was not fooled. “You are, though.” There was an insistent rigidity nudging his hip.

“Alas,” his husband said in a sad tone. ”My lot in life seems to be to have an insatiable mortal in my bed demanding satisfaction of various types. I suppose I can work myself up for ‘real sex’.”

“You already have,” Martin pointed out. His brain was coming back on-line and he felt a flicker of nerves. His hand flexed in memory of a generously sized length in his palm. “Er…”

He must have stiffened in the other’s arms. “No, not tonight, Martin,” the other said with such unnerving perspicacity that Martin blushed. “We’ve many nights ahead of us to fill with sensual delights. In the meantime -” He heaved, and Martin bounced on the bed with a surprised grunt. He pushed up on his elbows only to find arms on either side of his hips and the proximity of his husband’s body between his legs heating his skin. “We can do something about your insatiability, hm?”

A tongue traced a hot line against sensitive skin and Martin squawked. “Wait! You can’t do that!”

“Can’t I?” Lips were mouthing the underside, the voice vibrating against sensitive flesh in a way that had Martin’s nails digging into his palms.

“You - you’re an immortal. Aren’t you - oh, Eros, don’t stop, I mean, don’t - that’s my job, isn’t it? Being your - your - you _know! ”_

“Oh, heavens, Martin, _please_ don’t make me laugh when I’m about to suck you off. My what? Greek sex slave? No. My _kinaidos_ , my lovely pretty-boy bottom? Er. If that’s what you prefer? No? That’s grand. My _erômenos_? That would be nice if you’re amenable to being taught more classical education than you’ve already gained. And got wrong, I believe.” Silky hair tickled Martin’s thigh as his husband lay his head against it, the amused tone evident in his voice. “But that would limit our sexual contact a great deal, and since we’re already joined, I think I’d better be clear that I hope for much greater… intimacies. Lest you fret over that, I’ll have you know that in love-arts,  I’m equal-opportunity, if you catch my drift.”

“Ah…” Martin blinked. “Oh. Really?”

“Mmm.” His husband rubbed his head into Martin’s leg like a great cat. “To answer your inarticulate question, Martin, you are not my ‘you know.’ You are my partner. So don’t think I’ll be doing all the work, hm?  It’s too tiresome.” He huffed a laugh. “If we’re going to have power struggles in the bed, let’s make them enjoyable. Does that suit you?”

Martin took a moment to digest this as the last of his expectations withered. Everything between them was going to be uncharted territory, but then, hadn’t it always been? It could be… well, he wasn’t laying any bets for the future, but it might work out, this marriage thing. “All right.”

His husband laughed. “All _right_ all right?” A hand was stroking around the base of Martin’s aching cock, playing with the curls of hair.

“Yes,” Martin said. He took a deep breath and reached blindly, combing his fingers through his husband’s hair. He would not tug. Martin did stroke, though, encouraging.  “All right.”

“Excellent.” The bed shifted as his husband braced himself up again on his elbows. “Now, let’s see what we can do about this,” he said.

“All ri - oh, gods!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note about dates - each country/god territory has local variations for the dating system. By the Hellenion/Attic system, the new day begins at sunset. Also, you can do a hover over dates to see the modern equivalent, if that's your thing.
> 
> Early update, as it's a holiday weekend here.


	6. A Morning and an Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is unsettled by his new circumstances and reacts in his usual way. Eros rouses a red-head's temper.

 

 

 

[The 7th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Eros sighed, enjoying the weight of Martin’s head on his shoulder. He toyed with the wild fluff that Martin’s hair had become with light fingers, unwilling to wake him. Martin was clearly exhausted after a what must have been an emotionally tumultuous day. Though willing, his grey eyes had been hazy as much from fatigue as satiation. Martin’s drive to do his best by his new husband was sweet. But damned if Eros would settle for Martin putting his own needs aside to cater to his fearful beast of a husband. _I’ll have to work on that._ Skies above, what had the lad been thinking?  Eros chuckled.

Martin shifted at the noise and Eros ran a hand over his shoulder in apology. Martin settled again with a snuffle. Eros grinned as the tousled head lolled at an awkward angle and a gentle snore began. No, Eros wouldn’t – couldn’t settle for just the barest terms of their wedding arrangement. Martin did please him, but he didn’t yet love him. He needed to work on that.

The pale fingers of Eos' dawn were peeping around the draperies. Eros rubbed the heel of his hand over the centre of his chest. He ached at the thought of leaving this cosy space. Again he consigned Pothos to the cracks of Darkness for his trick. Would he be this besotted had it not been for the scratch of longing planted in him? Was it that poison that had made him decide to take Martin as his consort? Or was it cold calculation to try to tip the balance in his direction, ensuring that Martin would always be with him? He didn’t know. Still, it was all right for Martin, wasn’t it? Though he wasn’t aware of it, Martin had an immortal under his spell, so much so that Eros would agree to almost anything, grant his every wish, including Martin’s continued occupation as a pilot. The clause about Martin pleasing his husband was laughable. If Martin knew what power he held...

Eros exhaled and began shifting from under the lovely burden of his spouse. He wanted to see Martin awaken, drowsy and ginger curls sun-lit. But it was not to be. The wager had been stupid, the situation unfair – not just to himself, Eros knew, but to Martin as well. Well, he’d just have to make their nights as full of passion and joy as possible.

Deprived of his lover’s warmth, Martin turned away into the pillows. Eros’ nails bit into his palms. He throttled back the urge to clamber back into bed. He did _not_ want to go. Damn Pothos.

He drew the bed hangings closed, shrouding the source of his longing.

“I’ll see you soon, darling,” he whispered and left.

 

 

_Envious of you_

_the sun herself_

_might cover her splendour_

_in cloud_

_Your brightness_

_shines and lights the dark_

_Your warm and drowsy beauty_

_must but give delight_

 

_P.S. Feel free to make use of anything you find in the house, and if you’d make a list of things that are lacking or needed, that’d be great. Hope you like it. I wasn’t sure what you preferred in the way of accommodation, but this place seemed suitable. Yours, ----_

 

Martin pressed the back of his hand to aching eyes and rubbed. He blinked at the note attached to the fridge and looked again. The words remained in focus, the meaning clear enough. A flush rose in his cheeks as he reread the poem praising him. For his _beauty?_

He really couldn’t handle - well, _that_ , as foggy-brained as he was. He’d awoken in a strange bed, eyes popping open as memories of the previous day and night stormed his consciousness. In a claustrophobic panic, he’d clawed open the surrounding bed draperies and found himself in a large bedroom with attractive wallpaper in a vine motif, a wardrobe and sundry furnishings in dark wood. Sunlight slitted through a gap in the curtains, lighting an Aubusson rug on waxed oak flooring. It was all so very English that his breathing slowed at once.

Curiosity as well as the need for the toilet drove him out. A green robe in his size hung on a hook and he shrugged it on and set out to explore.

What he’d found was a comfortable, sprawling farmhouse – some rooms old and cramped, others new and spacious, obviously converted over the years. And here was this kitchen sized for a large family of farmers, the huge modern fridge – and the poem attached with a clip magnet. Martin took it down and rubbed a thumb over it. Just an ode to Martin Crieff, written with a ballpoint pen.

“Is this my life?” he said aloud. A choked laugh escaped him. He read again the incongruous postscript, the tone so like a chatty hostess of a country weekend gathering that his mouth turned up at the corners. The signature was a hopeless scrawl, though. No hope of finding out his husband’s identity that way.

Martin blew out a breath. “Make use of anything. Note things needed or lacking. Let’s start with breakfast.” He opened the fridge and blinked. The space was packed with a bewildering variety of foods - fresh, packaged and prepared. He lifted a plastic carton of fruit salad. A floppy bag had fajitas. _What?_ Martin choked back an urge to giggle. Like a child snooping at Christmas, he opened a few cupboards at random, finding them crammed with tins and boxes as well as an eccentric range of kitchen gadgets.

Martin rubbed the smile that was creasing his cheeks. “Huh. What’s needed, I think, are fewer options.” The whole room was a mad jumble of pricey kitchenware. A few minutes of searching turned up a bag of coffee beans and a slim grinder that looked like a module from the command deck of a starship. Martin moaned with need as the scent of brewing coffee began to circulate and turned his attention to constructing a hearty breakfast.

With bacon, eggs, toast and fruit salad reduced to smears on his plate and two cups of coffee inside, Martin began to feel more himself. What was he supposed to do now? It was his honeymoon but he was alone. It was bizarre. He was to be consorting with a nocturnal immortal. _Ye gods, last night..._ Martin’s cheeks heated and he shifted in his chair. He had lovers, though his encounters had been sporadic and far-between. Yet for sheer sensuality and attentiveness, his wedding night had been... _Oh, gods_. If he subtracted the embarrassing parts _(_ _and the terror, let’s not forget tha_ _t)_ , he’d have to say it was... the best. His husband had been understanding and, well, sweet. Wildly fit as well, if his senses weren’t being deluded. Would it always be like that?

 _Would tonight?_ Nerves fluttered in Martin’s stomach. He stood up, determined to distract himself. “The thing to do,” he said to the sun-lit room in attempt to convince himself, “is to act normally.” Right. A shower, then, and – and… Go for a walk. Find out where he was, for the heaven's sake. Yes, that’d be good. Martin returned to the master bedroom and pulled open the wardrobe. He goggled at the clothes revealed. All this was for him? Right. _Right_. Normal – this was his new normal. He should… he’d call his mother and let her know he was all right and…

In the back of his mind, the words of poem revolved, now spoken in a rich otherworldly baritone. ‘You shine and light the dark. You delight me, my warm and drowsy beauty.’

Martin touched a smooth shirt cuff, made of silky cotton of a quality unknown to his old experience. His fingers trembled and he curled them into a fist. Oh, who was he kidding. The real question was this: have a screaming nervous breakdown on the exquisite rug in this house of peculiar and thoughtful luxuries now? Or do it later? He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Martin yanked the shirt from the hanger. Hastily opened drawers revealed new jeans, a light jumper and other necessities. Martin dumped them on a bureau. He glanced at the large bed with the ridiculous navy satin sheets,  now marred with several dark stains. He gritted his teeth. Silk. Who wanted silk sheets? Not ordinary Martin Crieff. He was not going to be a pampered pet. Face set, a general holding the breach against a multitude of unwelcome thoughts, he marched to the bathroom.

Once out the front door with a key left in an envelope on a side table, _(_ _honestly, was everything taken care of, down to the last detail? It was just so... so... unnerving!_ ) Martin paused. The house’s flower gardens were quite pretty, he decided, though dimmed under grey skies. A converted stable housed two vehicles, but the door was locked when he tried it. Was he not meant to go anywhere? The surrounding countryside consisted of gently rolling farmland. Where to go? He walked to the narrow road and looked around. No civilization, no signs posted. Fine. Hands shoved into pockets, he strode off. He passed a posh-looking gated home. He sniffed. ‘The Laurels’.  He wondered if his own house had a name. If it did, he resolved never to let on to his mother. She’d be embarrassingly prideful over his fine circumstances. She might even insist upon a visit. He wasn’t ready, not until he’d sorted out how he felt about this whole marriage thing. He hunched his shoulders and walked faster.

A signpost pointed the way - at last! - to Newnham. Newnham? Martin stopped short. Why, that was not much over a half-hour’s drive from Fitton. His husband had picked a house near Fitton? Did he know – well, yes, he must know that Martin was going to be working out of Fitton Airfield. _He knows everything about you. And you know almost nothing about him._

Martin turned into the village proper, trying to outpace the pursuing thoughts. The clothes, the food, the house – all for him. Well, the house they shared, so Martin supposed an immortal wouldn’t have chosen a shabby place. But he could have kept Martin in a dreadful overpriced penthouse, instead of taking a place that near Martin’s place of work! A house that was grand and yet comfortable enough that Martin could see himself living there in happy if somewhat isolated splendour.

Martin had it all, didn’t he? He could do as he pleased, eat what he liked, enjoy every comfort. Martin had no doubt he could take the stupid silk sheets into the yard and burn a set everyday if he wished. All he had to do was spend the nights with his mysterious spouse. Oh, and please him. _And love him,_ whispered a small voice, _let’s not forget that_. A smothering weight pressed his ribs in until his breath came in short gasps.

With relief he spied a phone box on the village green. Call, call, call – who? Not his mother, she wouldn’t understand why he was on the verge of hyperventilating over his perfect life. He patted his pockets. No wallet. He lifted the receiver and punched through to an operator. “Hello? I’d like to make a call, charges reversed,” he said. “Yes. Name of Martin Crieff.”

 _Come on, come on_ _!_ His fingers drummed a fast tempo on the glass of the booth. The charges were accepted and he was connected.

“Martin?” Carolyn’s tone was both irked and curious. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for some time.”

Martin’s brain stalled. “Ah. Ah, yes. You did give me one week.”

Carolyn waited a beat for him to continue. Martin took a deep breath, then another.

“Why have you called? Collect, mind?”  Why, indeed, except that Martin needed to hear someone’s voice, even if they were speaking in annoyed accents. It drove away the echoing cadences of his husband’s voice, darkly curling up his spinal cord with licks of heat. Oh ye gods, the way he’d sounded – kind, amused, needy, affectionate. So full of care. For him. Martin nobody Crieff. Why?

“Um. Sorry about that, I’ll repay you when I get in, I was just out and realised I’d forgotten my wallet and -”

“Yes, yes, never mind that. Are you that eager to start work? I hope you’re not bored of married life already.” Carolyn chuckled.

“Gods, no, that would be…” _A t_ _erminally bad thing_ , Martin’s traitorous mind supplied. “Well, yes, actually, I would like to start.”

“That would be grand!” Carolyn said. “Two pilots are better than one, considering my current one. When you can begin?”

In the background he heard Douglas’ deep tones. “Do I hear our esteemed captain? Yes, by all means, please start soon. We’ve been put on standby and the paperwork Carolyn’s having me do is beyond tedious.”

“It’s what you are being paid for, oh lowly one!” Carolyn shouted back. “To sit in this comfortable -”

“Draughty, leaky -” Douglas rejoined.

“...office -”

“Portakabin, let’s not get pretentious -”

“And do the work as both regulations and I, your employer, require! And get your elbows off my ledger!”

“Fine, oh mistress of my salary.” Douglas’s voice dropped but Martin caught the words. “Still, must have been one Hades of a wedding night if he wants to flee so soon.”

Arthur’s voice chimed in. “Oh, do you think he _was_ a monster? Or, or maybe he changes shapes like Zeus? Wow. I wouldn’t want to sleep with a bull or an eagle!”

“Oh ye gods, no!” Martin said. “He’s fine! It’s just that… well, I can keep my job and right now I’m just a little…” Lost? Lonely? _Trapped._ “I’m at loose ends while he’s away during the day. I may as well be working.”

“He says he’s bored,” Carolyn summarised for Douglas.

Douglas’ low chuckle was audible. “Can’t have our captain wasting his day away. Come in, Martin, the more the merrier, especially as regards this paperwork.”

“What Douglas means,” Carolyn said in a louder tone, “is that it would be lovely to have your company. Besides doing the _necessary_ and _required_ forms that Douglas so denigrates as being beneath him, I would love to begin booking more than single pilot flights. We’re waiting for a call from a Scottish lord needing to pop up to his estates. It may be a day trip, but it could be overnight – we haven’t the full details yet on the Laird’s plans. It shouldn’t cut into your honeymoon period very much. What do you think?”

“I’d love to.” The words popped out of his mouth before he’d even thought about it. But gods, he needed some space, and flying was his sole consolation at the moment, his touchstone.  “Uh… would tomorrow suit?” He needed to sort out getting to the airfield.

With a thrill of apprehension Martin realised he’d have to break the news to his husband that his newly-wedded consort wanted to start work again not two days after their joining. Oh, ye gods, it would look as if he were scarpering. Martin closed his eyes and conjured the sensation of controls under his hands, the lift of a plane as it parted from the ground. He firmed his resolve. His spouse had _promised_. Martin would fight for it if he had to, just as Douglas had advised him.

“Be here for eight o’clock, then. That goes for you too, First Officer Swans-in-When-He-Likes Richardson! Turn up late again and I’ll have it from your hide.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Douglas said. “Consider me chastened. I look forward to sharing your harsh animadversions with my fellow subjugated. Until tomorrow, my captain,” he said in a louder voice for Martin’s benefit.

“Oh, brilliant! I can't wait to see Skip again!”

“All right.” Martin’s shoulders relaxed. He was committed. He’d be away for while at least, though flying away from his worries was a short-term solution at best. “Anything special that needs doing?”

“No, we’ll have the usual offerings. Wine for Iris, bread and salt for Thor. The estate is in the Hebrides, on the isle of Lewis.”

“Borderlands, is it? I’ll remember that.” It was a routine part of business to make offerings to the appropriate deities. When one ran a company that dealt with other god’s territories, it was simply good practice make one’s obeisances to the local gods, whether one worshipped them or not.

“Tomorrow, then!” Carolyn said and rang off. Martin put the receiver back on the hook. It was like a weight had been lifted from his chest. Martin was going to fly. He still had to tell his spouse, but he could do this. He would do this. Martin looked up through the glass to see the pub across the green and his stomach gurgled. All this worry had burned up the energy from his breakfast. Or perhaps it had been last night’s activities, on top of barely eating yesterday? Sighing, he began his trek back to the house, wishing he’d had the money for an early lunch.

To Martin’s surprise, there were several vehicles crowded on the verge opposite his house when he got back. Before he could even ask what was going on, a man with a tablet accosted him. “Are you Martin Crieff?” At Martin’s nod he went on with annoyance, “‘Bout time you got here! I was just about to leave. Mind opening up the house so I can start?”

“Start what?” said Martin, bewildered.

“The internet installation, high speed – the order’s right here, says it’s priority. Was placed three days ago but we couldn’t get to you until today. The door, sir?” Another man leaning against a KCOM van tossed his cigarette on the ground and picked up his toolbox.

“Landline. Telephone. Get your signature after I’m done,” he said laconically.

Flustered, Martin dug out the house key and handed it to him. At a touch on his elbow he turned to see a delivery man holding out a box and a receipt. “Sign here, please.” Martin scribbled and took the box, blinking at it. It was definitely addressed to him, at Red Lodge Farm. He grimaced. The place did have a name. A polite cough caught his attention. An older man in a neat grey suit with a briefcase held out a hand.

“Mr. Martin Crieff? I’m Hugh Stanmore, of Mulcome, Stanmore and Associates. I have been taken on retainer by your husband to handle legal affairs on your behalf.” Martin shook his hand before the solicitor’s words registered.

“Legal affairs?” stammered Martin. “Is anything wrong?” Oh gods, was there some further legal trap to his marriage?

Mr. Stanmore’s eyes crinkled, though his face remained professionally grave. “Not at all, sir. But certain papers require your signature. The appointment was set for today. I did call your mobile, I believe. But there was no answer.”

Martin flushed. “I, er. I left the house without it.” In fact, he didn’t know where the things he’d been wearing last night had been secreted. He supposed there would be a glut of voice mails on his phone, whenever he found it. “I had no idea you were coming,” he said. That little titbit of information would have been of more use to him than a note declaiming his drowsy beauty, he thought in irritation.

“Ah. Well, if you are free now?” Mr. Stanmore smiled. Conscious of the expense a house visit from a legal advisor must cost, Martin led the way to the kitchen. He dumped the box on the counter, cleared his breakfast dishes from the table and wiped it. Mr. Stanmore seated himself without comment and clicked open the briefcase. “First, let’s begin with the bank account and credit work.”

“Bank account?” Martin said.

Mr. Stanmore put on a set of reading glasses and glanced at him over them. “Yes, as I understand it, your husband wished you to have access to funds no matter where you were. As you can see, with this card you should have no problems.” He chuckled. “Unless the networks go down, in which case you can call this number and the required amount will be wired to you.”

Martin picked up the first set of papers and shuffled them in disbelief. The numbers made his mouth go dry and he sat with a thump.

“Is there a problem?” The solicitor was watching him, a touch of amusement in the corners of his mouth. Mute, Martin shook his head. “Excellent. Sign where indicated, if you please?”

Martin signed. And signed some more. Home insurance forms, ownership for the vehicles in the garage, _the deed to the very house._ Martin gulped at that. He pulled the last piece of paper to him and stared. “What’s this?”

“A will, Mr. Crieff, covering all of your possessions both now and in the future.”

“But…” _But if I die… Well, I will die before him. I’m only human_. “I, I don’t think it’s necessary, Mr. Stanmore.”

The solicitor cleared his throat and pulled a small paper from his briefcase. “It isn’t meant to be completed today. My client wished you to consider it.” He looked at the note and slid it across the table as if it were too personal to look upon.

Martin flipped over the note. In a familiar scrawl, it read, _‘_ _Though it is with great unhappiness that I contemplate the potential of Martin’s demise, his profession is on occasion a dangerous one. Yet he is mortal, with a mortal family who will also miss him. My suggestion is that his estate be willed to them.'_

Martin’s face was numb. He couldn't deal with this. He rubbed his aching eyes, startled when his fingertips came away damp. “I,” he started to say, but his throat closed. He nodded. Mr. Stanmore took the paper without comment and folded it into an envelope along with copies of the other papers..

“Here you are, Mr. Crieff. Put these somewhere safe.” He placed a business card on the table and rose. “Thank you for seeing me. If you need anything, you can call me at any time.”

Martin stood. “Would you like something before you go? Coffee? Tea?”

The solicitor shook his head. “Thank you, no. Oh, one more thing.” He held out a key ring. “For the garage and cars. Good day, Mr. Crieff. Felicitations on your union.”

Martin grasped the keys until the sharp edges cut into his flesh. “Wait. Mr. Stanmore. Do you know him? Did he tell you his name?”

Mr. Stanmore smiled. “No, Mr. Crieff. It seems unusual, but our firm has dealt before with, erm, those not of our realm. Don’t worry, you’ll be taken care of. It’s quite normal.”

In a daze, Martin saw him to the front door. The telephone man and internet provider were just finishing their work. Martin scrawled his name a few more times and closed the door on them. He leaned against it, abruptly exhausted. “Normal,” he said to the empty room, unsurprised to hear his voice quaver. “It’s all normal. Oh ye gods.” He desperately wanted something eat and about ten years time to digest the fact that he, Martin Crieff, would never need to worry about money again. No more scrabbling week to week. No worrying about rent on shabby flats. No more asking for help from family. He was free.

Exhaustion washed over him. A nap was in order if he was going to be flying tomorrow. _And who knows how late I’ll be up tonight_. Mind empty, he walked back to the kitchen, fingers brushing wainscotting and papered plaster as he went. His wainscotting. _My house._ He couldn’t grasp it.

Tinned soup and several large sandwiches later he turned his attention to the last item, the package. He picked it up and shook it. Heavy. He pulled the box open. Fabric? He looked at the invoice. “‘Sheets -  245×220 cm – 100% linen.’ Of course,” he said to the empty house. No details neglected, nothing escaping his husband’s notice. He was the luckiest mortal on earth with such an attentive spouse.

Then why were iron bands wrapping his chest again, shortening his breath?

He unwrapped the sheets and found the washing machine in the mudroom at the back of the house and loaded them in. He stripped the soiled sheets in the bedroom as well and tidied away the discarded wipes from the previous night, flushing at the memory. In the bedside table drawer he found his wallet, now-dead mobile and his epaulettes. Martin touched a finger to the bright gold braid. _Tomorrow,_ he promised himself.

Back in the living room, he made himself comfortable on the sofa and picked up the hand-held phone. He blew out a breath and punched in his mother’s number. “Hello? Mum? Yes, it’s me. No, I’m fine, fine, I’m sorry I worried you.” He grimaced. “No, I didn’t expect to be picked up like that. But everything’s fine.” He listened and a small knot of tension unwound within at her concern. He knew how to relieve her mind. “My h-husband - well, I can’t tell you much. It’s still all a bit mysterious, Mum. Ineffable, I guess. I can’t explain right now. But don’t worry about me, really, I'm okay. Let me tell you about where I’m going to be living…”

Martin talked and his mother exclaimed. Accentuating the positive for his mother’s sake helped Martin’s state of mind, though his stomach still churned. All right, so it was an arranged marriage with an unseen immortal being. But at least his husband cared enough to arrange things to make his life easier. Smothering it might be, but the literal proof of some feeling was there.

Tomorrow Martin would be in an aeroplane. Away from this perfect house and his sweet husband with that unbearably attractive body…   _Skies above, I’m only human_ … Martin thrust down the thought. All he had to do was find a way of breaking it to his spouse that two days after their wedding, Martin needed space. He could handle that, surely.

It would be all right. Wouldn’t it?

_Oh, bugger._

 

 

 

 

[The 8th day of Boedromion beginning at sunset of the 7th, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Eros exhaled in relief as he spied Martin asleep on the sofa, a book from the one of the well-stocked shelves rising and falling on his chest. He rubbed the ache in his chest which had loosened at the sight of his slumberous darling. Was it always going to be so hard for him to take his leave in the dawn, and so joyous upon their reunion? He fancied the warmth of Martin’s spark was warming him from inside out. _Blessings and curses_ , he thought.

He moved about the room, closing the draperies to exclude any light that a passing car might cast. He squinted, shifting to mortal gaze. Yes, perfect darkness. Returning to the sofa, he craned his neck  to read the spine of the book. _American Gods?_ He huffed – fantastical trashy fiction about debased gods struggling for power with upstart techno-godlings in the New World. As if any of his own needed to cross the sea for believers. It was as likely as gods arising from technology. One good bolt from Zeus would put paid to any such. Besides, the native gods of the New World were not kind to interlopers.

Eros pulled the book from Martin’s loosened grip. He brushed a hand down the shirt and chinos he’d assumed and sat on the rug, careful not to place himself within range of Martin’s head.

“Martin? Martin, it’s time to wake. I’m home.”

Martin twitched and Eros leaned away, just in case Martin’s clumsiness last night were a common occurrence. Eros didn’t need another bloody nose. But Martin only stretched and his eyes opened, blinking but failing to focus on anything. “It’s just me,” Eros reassured him.

Martin yawned, muzzy-eyed. “Oh, are you back, then? Wha’ time is it?”

“About nine thirty. The last light of sunset has faded. Are you hungry?”

Martin rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Not quite. Had something from the fridge freezer ‘round five. Gods, but I must have been tired.”

“Should I be proud, or was it something other than our exertions last night that so exhausted you?” Eros teased. Martin groaned.

“How do I answer that without getting in trouble?”

“Oh, dear. Hard day as well as night then?” Martin dipped his chin. Eros traced a finger along the back of his hand. His heart warmed when Martin took a deep breath and hesitantly turned his hand to twine his fingers with his. “Tell me about it,” Eros said. He leaned in to press a kiss to Martin’s knuckles. “You may not credit it, but I missed you.”

Martin swallowed. “You know, I think I believe you.”

“That’s encouraging, and I’d love to hear more of this development. May I join you? The floor is a bit hard for these ancient bones.”

Martin covered another yawn. “Please, no more age-gap jokes.” He shifted his legs down and Eros sat beside him, urging Martin to lean back against his shoulder.

“Why, darling? Are they getting old?” Eros grinned at Martin’s groan. “I’d apologise, but it’s best you know from the start. I have an irreverent sense of humour.”

“And a fine appreciation for the ridiculous,” Martin muttered.

“Are we referring to my consort? I assure you, that though he may occasionally do things that are humorous -”

“More like, all the time...”

“I would not laugh at him. I also have a keen appreciation for the unusual.”

“Bizarre, you mean.”

“Eccentric, even.”

“Weird.”

“Wonderfully different, Martin. You’ve no idea how much it can mean to an immortal like myself. Really.” Eros touched the side of his head to Martin’s. “Now tell me: how was your day?”

Martin pulled away to squint into the space from where Eros’ voice came. His fingers twitched in Eros’ hand. “I – um. Did you really mean for me to, er. Have… all this? The house? And the cars? My gods, I almost passed out at the bank account.”

“Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t take care of you?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” Martin was beginning to flush. “It’s a lot.”

“You don’t like it?” Eros swallowed back a pang.

“No, of course I like it!” Martin said. But Eros could see his face was distressed. “You’ve been… very generous. But – I’m not used to so much.”

“Please don’t think of it as a burden, Martin, I don’t want you to feel kept.” _Only to keep you with me._ “You value your independence. That’s all I wished to give you.”

“That’s not the problem – well, a bit maybe. It’s – just. Maybe I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?” Eros’ breath caught, his damnable dart-stricken heart pained. “I wish you wouldn’t be. I would never cause you harm.”

Martin shook his head. “Not, not like that. It’s what it all means. Your notes, the clothes in my size, a house near my work - even new sheets! And the solicitor, with the will, and you are even thinking of my family.” He hiccuped a laugh that had no humour. “S-so my day was wonderful and terrifying. I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in, and I still don’t know why, I don’t _know_ you.”

Eros pressed the tips of his fingers to Martin’s lips. “Say no more, I understand. It was brave of you to agree to marriage but there's no getting 'round the fact that you were... reluctant. You’ve no reason not to mistrust me, Martin, but believe this at least - I don’t mean to burden you.”

“I’m joined with you. I’m not exactly going to go anywhere, am I?” Martin said in a low voice.

Again Eros' treacherous heart pained him. He drew his hands away. “Oh, for Nyx’s sake, Martin, you wound me. Will it help if I apologise for that? I’ve never before taken a consort! It’s obvious now I shouldn’t have used the traditional human approach.”

“It’s pretty much a dead tradition, you know. But, but I’m thankful you didn’t borrow a leaf from Zeus’ books.” Martin’s joke fell flat.

“No!  My feelings for you are such that... I did grant your request to continue flying, I hoped it would please you. I’m sorry that you’re unhappy now, but I’m not used to this marriage thing either!”

“Sorry.” Martin shifted. “It’s fine. I’m not unhappy. I mean, I think it’ll be fine.”

“You’re hedging about something,” Eros sighed. “Go on, say it.”

Martin swallowed. “Um. I think – well, you’re very fanciable.”

The god of love and passion bit the inside of his cheek. Martin went on. “You do, ah, seem very nice.

 _Nice_. Eros shut his eyes. _Nice_ was shorthand for, ‘It’s not you, darling, it’s me.’ Eros knew the language of loss as well as love. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry or kiss his brave little Martin. He waited for the Damoclean sword to fall.

Martin spared him. “I think – I think it might work out? But I just need time to, to… adjust.”

Eros breathed out and recaptured Martin’s fingers. “Anything you need, however long it takes. I’m glad you find my company pleasing.”

Martin’s ears turned red with embarrassment, Eros saw. _Ah, there’s attraction aplenty there. I can work with that_. “Yes. Well.”

“I’ll dare to hope, then. I _am_ patient.” In a brighter tone Eros added, “I’ve been told I’m persuasive. And charismatic.”

“When not making appalling age jokes,” Martin said, matching his tone.

“Nonsense. That’s part of my charm.”

“Whoever told you that?” asked Martin.

“Cheek. Do you like the house?”

“I love it,” Martin said in perfect honesty. Eros squeezed his hand. “A bit in the sticks, but then you’ve given me a car _and_ a Range Rover, for the heaven's sake. I think I’ll survive.”

“Oh, good. I did try to arrange something suitable in the short time I had.”

“But about the kitchen...”

“Not enough? I’ll take care -”

Martin grabbed at his knee, squeezing once he found it. “Don’t you dare! Heavens, how much do you think I eat? And there’s all the gear and gizmos!”

Eros’ cheeks heated, though whether from embarrassment or the unexpected hand on his knee he wasn’t sure. “Er. Too much?” he hazarded. “I had a professional shopper handle things.” Martin let go and fell back against the sofa back with an arm over his eyes, snorting. “She came highly recommended, I’ll have you know,” Eros said, vaguely offended but also amused.

“Of course she did!” gasped Martin.

“Only the best for you, darling.”

Martin dropped his arm and turned towards Eros. His brow was creased. “You – you do mean that, don’t you.”

Eros succumbed to the pull of the dart-sting and let it bring his lips to Martin’s, a soft brush that deepened as Martin’s mouth moved under his. Eros hummed in pleasure as Martin lifted his head to engage him more fully, returning the kiss until Eros drew back with a gasp. "Ah, that's lovely. But take it slow, darling. There's plenty of time, if you're willing. Nyx, but you are tempting."

He wound an arm around Martin's shoulders to encourage him to turn towards him, but Martin had stiffened. Eros exhaled. "What? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, fine, really, I was – I am – I was enjoying it." The words tumbled out. Eros braced himself.

"But?"

"Oh, shit," Martin muttered. He dropped his head to Eros' shoulder and mumbled something.

"Sweet, what did you say?"

"Nothing," Martin said to his shoulder. "Just – we may not have much time. Tonight."

Eros grasped Martin's shoulders and pushed him upright. "What do you mean?"

Martin gulped. Eros waited. At last Martin blurted, "Please don't take this wrong way, but I was a bit… Er. I called MJN, that is, the airline I fly for. And I kind of... told them I'd start work." His jaw firmed though his eyes were wide with trepidation. "Tomorrow."

Martin's body was rigid as he awaited Eros' reaction. Fear again, Eros noted and couldn't help a soft oath escaping his lips. Martin flinched and that irked him even further. "I see. No, no, don't shrink up on me."

Martin hesitantly fumbled for Eros' face. "You're frowning."

"Well, why not?" said Eros, exasperated. "Why should I be happy that you’re still tying yourself up in knots about making me angry? What on earth do you think I'm going to do?"

Martin's brows snapped together. "Can you blame me? You're an immortal! And I'm not! Everyone knows that immortals are fickle -"

"Mortals likewise, and I do wish you’d stop doubting me! If you knew -"

"... and there's all those stories, about the, the _tricks_ they play -"

"This is not a trick! It would be nice if the consort I've made solemn oaths to could -"

"... with people turned into, into _cows,_ or, or flowers and I don't want to become one of -"

"...stop thinking I'm going to turn him into a house-plant! Even when his level of intelligence currently resembles one. If you’re going to cower before me every time we run into a problem -"

"Oh, that's reassuring! You do that! You can just set me in the bedroom and I'll just wait for you and, and _process sunlight_ -"

"I've said again and again I will not harm you! It's the last thing on this realm I would wish! Would you kindly stop making me feel like a bully?”

“What, you’re not upset even a little that I’ll be going off tomorrow? Look me in the eye and say it!” Martin was on his knees on the sofa facing him, face flushed and hands clenched.

“Yes!” Eros said. “I am! I swore you'd fly and I meant it. By Nyx and Erebus, I swear it again here and now.” His own face was hot as well, his voice raised.

“And, and are you sorry I made you swear that?” Martin retorted.

Hades’ teeth, the lad was either foolish or brave to continue challenging him on that subject. Damned if Eros didn’t find a feisty Martin with a temper matching his hair attractive, even as he longed to shake sense into him. Eros’ voice dropped to a growl.

“I _wish…_ Fine, you want to know what I think of my oath? I’ve known you but one night yet I already _worry_ about you out there, flying into other divinities’ territories. You little fool, I’m afraid of mechanical failure on the tin cans you mortals insist on risking yourselves in, something beyond your abilities to handle. And, yes, fine, I’m a touch jealous. It’s irrational. Probably the damned scratch -”

“What?” Martin said. Eros looked at him. Martin’s expression was still contumacious.

“Never mind! To sum up, Martin Crieff, I'm sorry that this night will be cut short, since you'll need more sleep and I am afire to know all your perfections!”

Martin’s mouth dropped open. “ _What?_ ” he yelped.

“But don’t mind me! You can go! With my blessing!” Eros shouted. “I’ll miss you!”

“Great!” Martin said. “Me too! I think! You _lunatic_.”

“My thanks!”

“Why are you still shouting?”

Eros growled towards the ceiling, “Because you, you maddening idiot, have got under my skin!”

Martin shot back, “That’s not my fault!” He leaned close. “Anyway, you – chose – _me._ ”

“More fool me.” Eros eyed him with a burning gaze.

“Are we going to fight about this too?”

“We _might._ ”

There was a pause before Martin said, “Well?”

“Well, what?” Eros snapped.

“I’m flying to Scotland. If I have to stay overnight – do you want to come stay with me?” His tone was belligerent, his chest rising and falling.

Through clenched teeth Eros said, “Oh, I’ll come with you, all right. Though it’s not going happen in sodding Scotland. It’s going to be here. Tonight, you _unbearable_ creature.”

“Great,” Martin said, and was on his lap a moment later, hands buried in Eros’ hair as they fought for control of the kiss. Eros’ blood thrummed as Martin’s hands tangled in his hair to pull his head closer, mouth open as their lips clashed hard enough to bruise. Nyx, but the lad was all fire when his dander was up. Martin’s tongue licked within and Eros groaned and began fighting with the opening to Martin’s jeans. Maddened, he wrenched them open and did his best to drag them down. But Martin’s legs were on either side of his own and the cursed things caught, leaving him with only half of Martin’s delectable arse cheeks exposed.

Martin’s giggle at his predicament was wild, his own hands having ceased dragging on Eros’ hair and fumbling his way down his chest, trying to force buttons free. “Why in Hades did you decide to wear clothes tonight?”

“Revenge,” Eros said and contented himself with grasping Martin’s arse and pulling him against his aching groin.

"What?" Martin said, nuzzling beneath Eros' chin and forcing his head back against the sofa. His mouth nipped the underside of his jaw and moved lower, planting damp mouth-shapes against the column of Eros' throat. Eros' eyelids fluttered.

"Thought you would want the chance," he gasped. "To remove my clothes... Oh, stars, keep doing that! After last night." He shuddered as Martin set his mouth to the juncture of neck and shoulder.

"I was unconscious. Not the same!" Martin said. He'd managed to pop a few buttons and wrenched the shirt from Eros’ shoulder. "Get out of this thing. Are you... are you going to make me get rough?" He punctuated this with a grind of his hips.

"Heavens forfend," Eros said, loving this new side of Martin. He’d have to provoke him more often if it meant Martin lost his usual inhibitions. He squeezed Martin's arse and moved against him.

"Good." Martin yanked the shirt tails free and followed this up with a valiant attempt to wriggle his fingers under the waistband of Eros' own trousers. His progress was halted by the tight fit and he hissed a curse. Eros choked as Martin gave up, grabbed him by the shirt front and did his best to topple the god over. Stitches popped as Martin heaved. They toppled sideways with Eros beneath but Martin’s grip slipped. He began to slide to the floor, eyes wide and mouth open in dismay. Eros whooped with laughter and caught him under the armpits, winding up with the panting and welcome burden of one Martin Crieff sprawled over him.

"Oh, teach me Greek wrestling, will you? I'll show you how it’s done." In a quick movement Eros had them both on their feet. He stooped and heaved Martin over his shoulder in a conqueror's carry.

"Oof! Put me down!"

Eros only laughed and began to stride to the master bedroom. Martin thumped him several times, legs kicking. Eros pinned the flailing limbs and grinned. "You are adorable when you're provoked, you know that?"

Martin made a sound between a growl and a screech. Fingers scrabbled at Eros' shirt tails, baring skin. Eros stumbled on the first step of the stairs and swore, bumping his shoulder into the wall when he felt teeth. "Oh, you little viper!" he said, shocked and admiring. "Don't make me drop you. How dare you sink your fangs into me?"

There was a growl – or was it hiss? in reply. “Hurry _up._ ”

"Venomous little thing."

"Don’t die before you do something about it," Martin advised. “Like get the venom sucked out.” He nipped again. "Can't you go any faster, you - you _ancient thing?_ "

Martin yelped at the sharp slap on his half-naked buttocks for that impertinence. Eros obeyed – but absolutely not because there was a hot-blooded mortal urging him to the bed chamber with tooth and nail. Not at all. He kicked the door shut and surveyed the room. The bed was unmade, sheets stripped, but the mattress pad was sufficient. He ran his hand up Martin's thigh and snapped the elastic band of his pants against a plump buttock, snickering at Martin's renewed struggle to be set down. "I'll show you what happens to snakes in my bed.”

Dropping his shoulder, he plopped Martin on the bed. Martin bounced, arms flung out. “Oh, ye gods. You’re killing me. Your jokes are horrendous.”

“So you have said, consort mine. Not that your ripostes are much better. Now – will you get those clothes off or do you require further assistance?” Eros took a heavy step in the direction of the bed and grinned as Martin began to struggle free of his encumbrances. “Oh. So wriggly, little viper. I like that.”

Eros fended off the jeans flung towards the sound of his voice, chuckling. Opening a drawer, he tucked a small bottle into the sagging pocket of his shirt that had been half-ripped away by Martin’s combativeness. Eros rested one knee on the bed. Martin paused, caught in pulling his shirt over his head as the mattress dipped. Eros grasped a bare ankle and dragged his squawking lover closer. Ah, the lad was delicious, even smothered in garments. Panting, Martin freed his arms and head and froze when Eros placed a hand on his hip, pressing him into the mattress. “Got you, little snake,” Eros purred. What a lovely sight it was, too. Martin’s cock lolled only inches from Eros’ hand.

Martin’s eyes were wide and dark. “What are you going to do about it?” he tossed back.

Eros’ grin was wide, though he knew Martin couldn’t see it. His fingers moved in tiny circles. “I believe something was mentioned about sucking venom out?”

Martin wet his lips. His cock twitched, filling even more as Eros watched. “Y – yes?”

Eros smoothed his hand down Martin’s thigh, then used both hands to widen the vee of Martin’s legs. Martin’s breath came faster. Eros stroked up the soft inner skin, enjoying the smoothness near the top as he teased and skirted his goal. “That must have been a mistake,” he said in a conversational tone.

“How – oh. How’s that?” Martin was squirming, trying to nudge his cock towards Eros hand.

Eros lifted his hands away. Martin made a noise that was close to being a whine. Eros pulled the little bottle from his pocket and rolled it between his hands. “One _sucks_ poison from a bite. The thing one must does with vipers,” he said, and clicked the bottle open. Martin stilled. “Is milk the venom.” He drizzled a little lubricant into his hand and let the bottle fall between Martin’s legs.

“Oh.” Martin’s voice was faint. “ _Eros._ Um. Will there be some kind of warm-up first? Because to be honest -”

“Hush. Leave it to me, I am -” _The god of love and passion, if you only knew, you ridiculous thing. Let me show you what I’m capable of._ “Adept at, ahem, snake charming.” He grinned at Martin’s groan. He leaned forward and cupped Martin’s cheek, rubbing a thumb over the scattering of freckles. “And you need charm and attention lavished on you, sweet thing. Relax.” His voice dropped to a soothing purr. “Relax, lie back. Repose yourself, ssh. I’ve got you.”

As he spoke, fingers gliding over the soft skin, Martin’s lids fell to half-mast. He turned his head into Eros’ hand, neck muscles loosening bit by bit as his nervous tension drained away. Eros drank in the way Martin’s mouth parted as Eros’ voice washed over him. Fingers drifted in light strokes down, gliding over pectorals, nipples. He spread Martin’s legs further, seating himself between and bending one of Martin’s legs to rest against his side. When he touched Martin’s cock with one slick hand, swirling the moisture around the tip and playing with the foreskin until the glans was exposed and glistening, the noises Martin made were all he could wish for.

The glow of Martin’s arousal bathed Eros and subsumed the sharp longing beneath sweetness. This, this is what he needed, the writhe of Martin’s body as he pressed one finger inside Martin’s entrance, the quiver of Martin’s leg beneath his lips as he touched his mouth to his knee. Martin jolted as his finger passed over a small bump. “Ah! Don’t, it’s -”

But Eros was sex incarnate – he understood. Martin was very sensitive, _oh blessings for this gift,_ and so Eros shifted, insinuated a second finger and worked around the prostate, teasing but never quite touching. His thumb rubbed the taut rim of flesh as his fingers moved, encouraging the muscles to relax. Martin’s fingernails dug into the mattress pad, chest heaving and his eyes closed as he gave himself up to his lover’s knowledgeable hands.

Eros closed his own eyes, the light of Martin’s spark burning behind his lids, pulsing brighter as he came nearer to completion. Eros focussed on driving him further, fingers within and a hand without working his heavy erection with long strokes. “Oh, gods, _please._ ” Martin’s voice was strained. A hand covered Eros’ own, urging him to move faster. Eros let his hand be guided, intent on learning the ways of Martin Crieff.

A fluttering around his fingers was all the warning he had before Martin began pulsing, Martin’s hips lifting from the bed as he cried out. Eros sighed as Martin’s spark brightened to a brilliant flare against his closed lids. “Oh, darling, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured. His own erection was a heavy weight straining in his trousers, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction of seeing how Martin glowed, limp and sated. With care he withdrew his fingers, rubbing the tender ache in his chest with his knuckles. Stretching himself beside Martin, he nuzzled into his curls as he folded an arm over his love.

Martin’s breathing slowed and his lids lifted. “That was – I don’t know how to…” His voice was thick. “Can I… what about you?” He turned in Eros’ arms. Eros shook his head and pressed him closer.

“Another time, sweet. I am content.” He was. He snagged Martin’s shirt and swiped away the mess between them. Task finished, he curled himself around his lovely spark. _Ah, Martin mine._

Martin shivered and reached out, patting around. “Oh, hells.” His jaw popped in a tremendous yawn. “Forgot. I washed the new sheets. They’re still in the dryer.”

Eros hummed, drifting in contentment. “Bugger the sheets. Are you cold?” Without further thought he manifested a wing and wrapped it about them. Martin inhaled as the downy warmth settled over him.

“You have wings? Where were they before?”

Eros shrugged. “I never had them to start with. But mortal expectations and belief sometimes shape gods – or their aspects, at least. Mortals used to believe only birds could fly, so gods wound up with wings. I’m thankful that they haven’t started believing we fly like aeroplanes or other mechanical things.”

“Yeah.” Martin snorted. “Imagine propellers on your head. Like a helicopter.”

“Or a flying robot from a Japanese movie. All rockets and rivets.”

Martin smiled against his shoulder. “It’s a bird. It’s a plane…”

“It’s me. Are you warm enough?”

“Yes.” Martin yawned again. “So. You fly.”

“So do you, love. Tomorrow. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you before I go.”

“”kay. G’night,” Martin said, voice drifting lower.

Eros waited, his mortal spark wrapped in his arms. He smiled as the small snore started. Besotted, completely besotted. That’s what he was.

 


	7. Lewis, Scotland (And Other Annoyances)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's first day at MJN. It goes as well as one might expect.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/crimsongriffin/14195181378)

 

 

 

[The 8th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Dawn was just beginning to filter in around the edges of the curtains when Eros woke Martin with a kiss to his forehead. “Up, Martin. The coffee maker is on, it should be ready soon.”

Martin yawned. “Oh. Thanks.” He blinked, eyes trying to focus. Eros laid a palm over his eyes, enjoying the tickle of Martin’s lashes.

“Sorry, darling, you mustn’t.” He pressed an apologetic kiss against Martin’s lips. “I’ve got to go now.”

“Where do you go? If you don’t mind my asking.” Martin licked his lips. “Husband.”

Eros felt a thrill at the word, though he hoped to hear his name soon on those beautiful lips. Still, in lieu of a name, a title would do. Endearments would be even better, though.  “I’ve business to attend to. Loathe as I am to leave you, I must fly.”

Martin’s head turned under his hand. A smile spread over his face. “Yes. Me too. Thank you - for, well. Everything. I can’t wait to start.”

Eros could see how anticipation had brightened Martin’s spark until it nigh flamed. His own heart sank at the sight. Wasn’t a night in the arms of Eros competition enough for the allure of a damned aeroplane? It seemed not. Not yet. Eros wondered if, over time, flying might lose its enjoyment for Martin. _There’s a thought._

Martin rubbed his chest and stretched, distracting Eros. “Aren’t you going to tell me to be safe?”

Eros chuckled and kissed him once more. “No, darling. I know you will be. Close your eyes a moment.” Martin complied, and Eros whisked himself away.

Once outside the house, he looked back at the curtained windows of their bedroom. He shook himself free of the voice urging him, _stay, stay, just close the hangings, blindfold him and make love to him until Martin is all yours._

A cough made him look to his left. Pothos leaned against the gatepost, a cigarette between slim fingers. Eros scowled. “What do you want?”

“Cosy little abode you’ve got. It’s quite the little hide-away. Me? I’m just checking on you. Aren’t you pushing the limitations of our wager?”

“What, by taking him as a consort? I’m well within my bounds to do so.”

Pothos shook his head. “Not that, but play stupid if you like.” He squinted up at the bedroom window. “Mm. He’s all afire, isn’t he? But not for you, oh no.” A slow grin stretched his face. “Interesting. Can I pick them, or what? I shall have to compose a paean to serendipity.”

“He _will_ love me, never fear,” Eros said. “These things take time.”

“It’s the talk of Olympus, you know.” Pothos dragged on the cigarette. “How the great Eros was out-faced by a mortal. One who’d rather die than give up his day-job.” He snickered.

Eros’ lip lifted. “Well, you’re the arse that planted your damnable longing in me. It actually _pains_ me, you bastard. Heavens forbid he ask me for the moon, because I’d have to get the sodding thing for him. So fuck your bolts, cousin.”

Pothos grinned. “Sounds prickly. No thanks. But I don’t mind taking the credit for your sad situation. It just tickles me pink, seeing you brought so low, and by _such_ a mortal! I do have to wonder if you can prevail in the battle for Martin’s heart. And where will you be if you lose? The new god of yearning, and Love will have a new lord.” He spun a quick circle and posed, palms up. “Me.”

“Not going to happen,” Eros said, but doubt assailed him. For the first time, he couldn’t take the easy way and use his arrows or god-influence to make a mortal fall in love. What would happen to Martin if he actually lost the wager? _What’ll happen to me?_

Reading his expression, Pothos drawled, “Oh, don’t worry, cousin. If you love him that much, you’ll be happy whatever he does. Even if he chooses _flying_ over you."

Eros opened his mouth to deny that possibility but Pothos hadn't finished. "I bet you never thought you had any serious competition for him, did you? Too bad you’ll be left broken-hearted. And powerless.” His teeth flashed in a vulpine grin. “When I’m Love, pray to me. I might even grant your wish.” He kissed the tips of his fingers and waggled them at the window before a gust of wind swirled. He was gone.

Eros snarled at the empty space. No, he couldn't lose Martin, at any cost. Flying would stand no chance. Grim-faced, he pulled a familiar aspect over himself, patted his briefcase-quiver and left.

 

 

Martin tapped his hand on the steering wheel of his little Nissan, an unconscious smile on his face. Flying! His first day of work! He glanced at his captain’s lying on the passenger side seat. It had been with diminishing surprise that he’d found a uniform waiting for him in the wardrobe. He brushed at a non-existent speck of dust on his epaulettes. Douglas’ epaulettes - now his. The gesture had been kind, and he had to thank Douglas for his gift.

A bird darted at his windshield and away. Martin followed it with his eyes a moment before turning his attention to the road again. Wings. His husband had wings. His husband was a god, not one of the lesser immortals. Not a satyr, thank heavens. Martin thought of the smooth, well-muscled body and his face heated. _Definitely not._ But which winged god?

Martin’s brow wrinkled in thought. Not Zephyrus, unless the god who’d kidnapped him from the cliff-side were amazing at dissembling. Himeros? Helios? Hm. His husband did disappear with every sunrise - but no, the Oracle had said it was a creature of darkness. _And fire. Terrible_ _. Oh ye gods, let it not be Thanatos._ Martin’s knuckles whitened on the wheel at the thought of bedding a death-god. But fiery, dark, ancient and terrible - it didn’t fit with any of the ones he knew. There were the _erotes_ _,_ of course. The gods of love’s aspects might be considered fiery, after a fashion. But were they terrible?

Martin sighed and clicked on the radio for the news. His thoughts wandered, working over the puzzle. It might not even be any of the gods who traditionally had wings, considering what his husband had said of mortal beliefs changing the shapes of their gods. What facts did Martin know? That his spouse had the form of a man with a physique that wouldn’t be out of place at the Olympic games. Oh, and was thoughtful, funny and patient. And had a bit of a temper. And was amazingly skilled at, well…. Martin’s mind stuttered and stalled. The, the... sex _. Oh, heavens._

Memories of the night before sprang to life in his imagination. _His mouth… and his hand when he’d… and then the fingers!_  Martin put on his flashers and pulled over to the side, resting his head against the wheel while he gulped for air. _Oh, ye gods._ He leaned back and loosened his tie. He shifted in his seat and groaned at the tightness in his trouser-region. Shit, shit, he couldn’t go into MJN in this state.

 _Think of something off-putting_ _._ Martin wiped his forehead with the back of a shaking hand. _Don't think of that mouth against your leg, no, stop_. He scrunched his eyes closed, casting about for something to counteract the tsunami of arousal. _Naked in school, giving a speech naked  - no, naked and wanking in… in…_

In mind's eye, Carolyn looked at him across her desk. ‘ _And it took you how many tries to get your CPL, Mr. Crieff?’_  Martin’s cheeks flooded crimson. Oh, gods, it still wasn’t enough, he had to make it worse! Martin visualised Simon’s moustache on Carolyn’s face. Ugh, ugh. Carolyn smoothed the growth with a finger and lifted a brow. _‘At MJN, we serve discerning clients. What makes you think you’re up for it?’_ Gods, no, that was just weird. _Bad_ weird.

Martin tried a last time. He pictured Carolyn taking a sip from a latte and failing to wipe away the foam from Simon’s sandy moustache _._ Ew! _‘But why are you here with no clothes, Skip? _’_ _ she said in Arthur’s cheery voice. _‘Gosh, is it National Naked Day? Nobody told me! Should I get my own willy out? Brilliant!’_

Martin’s eyes sprang open as he shouted with horror. He choked a laugh back. Oh. Ye. _Gods._ That had done the trick. Carolyn might be terrifying, but Martin sent a small guilt-ridden prayer to the skies nonetheless. He needed to put it out of his head when he saw her today, for the sake of his sanity. Blowing out a shaky breath, he turned up the weather report and put the car into gear.

At Fitton airfield he parked by a gorgeous Lexus. Well, at least his 370Z wasn’t an embarrassment next to the expensive vehicle. Martin adjusted his hat and tapped on the door of the Portakabin that served as MJN’s offices. “Hello?”

“Is that Skip?” The door was wrenched open and Martin found himself squashed by Arthur’s enthusiastic hug. “Oh, it’s great to see you, Skip! We were so worried when you disappeared like that! What happened? Oh, and congratulations!”

“Arthur, stop strangling the man and let him in the door,” Carolyn said. “Welcome back, and felicitations on your union. It’s obvious you’ve come to no harm.” She shook his hand and straightened his Arthur-mussed tie. Arthur accosted him again, full of well-wishing.

“Oh, has my captain arrived? Wonderful!” Douglas swung his legs down from the desk he’d been resting them on and approached. “No, Arthur, you can stop shaking his hand like that, yes, really. Don’t you know the custom is to kiss the bride? Or is it the groom? It’s so equal opportunity these days.”

To Martin’s mortification, Arthur grinned and gave him a peck on the lips. “Brilliant! I hope lots of people kiss me on my wedding day!”

“Dear me,” Douglas said. “Beaten to the punch. May I be second to congratulate you in such a manner?” He winked. Martin’s face went up in flames.

“No, no, that’s fine, I mean, no. No, really,” he stuttered. Douglas heaved a huge mock-sigh.

“Ah, anything refused four times must indeed be a rejection. How my charms are fading in my old age. Why, I remember a time -”

“In the post-Mesozoic era when pilots bellowed their prowess in the night. Let the boy alone, Douglas,” Carolyn said. “I don’t fancy signing us up for a training course on Sexual Harassment Awareness at this early juncture.”

Douglas sketched a bow. Carolyn gave him a severe look before nodding. “Fine. Arthur, would you mind getting the offerings from the car? They’re in the Tesco bag.” She sat and picked up forms. Douglas scanned Martin's red face and his lips quirked.

“Pity, but your husband’s claim is pretty clear. I shan’t presume.”

Martin’s hand flew to his neck. Oh, gods, did he have a hickey? Douglas chuckled and rubbed a finger over his lips. Martin touched his mouth - his lips were tender and swollen. He gulped, remembering how he’d attacked his husband’s mouth last evening. He ducked his head to avoid Douglas’ amused look.

The telephone rang and Carolyn answered. “MJN Air, how may we serve you? Lord Leverhulme, I’m pleased to hear from you. Today? Certainly, I’ll come collect you right away.” She jotted notes. “Do I - A what? Roof rack? For your _surfboard._ Of course, I’ll take care of it.”

“Lord Leverhulme has an interesting new hobby?” Douglas said.

“Lord Leverhulme wants to ‘catch some surf.’ Lord Leverhulme is insane. The man’s sixty if he’s a day. Arthur, I need you to ask if anyone has a roof rack or at least some tie-downs,” she said as Arthur returned with a carrier bag. “Douglas, have you filed the flights plans to Stornaway?”

“Mum, you know I’m not allowed in the mechanic’s shed after that time -” Arthur started. Carolyn flung up her hands.

“Oh, fine, I’ll go face the Titans in their cave. Get the drinks ready. Everyone else, make yourselves useful. I want to go the moment we get back.” She bustled out the door. Arthur opened the fridge and began loading a basket with cans and bottles.

“Skip? I was wondering. What’s your husband like? Is he a monster?”

“Um, no. He’s… normal. For a god, that is. I mean, I think he’s normal. But he's a god. Did I mention that? He’s…” _Incredible in bed, not that I can talk or even think too much about it without embarrassing myself._ “Nice,” Martin said.

“Gods-damned with faint praise, methinks,” Douglas murmured.

“Oh, wow! A god!” Arthur said, wide eyed. “That’s amazing! Is he powerful? Can I meet him? Maybe he’ll turn me into a cow. That’d be peaceful. Or an aspidistra! Who is he?”

Martin shuddered at Arthur’s musings, but to admit he didn’t know. Arthur’s face fell.

“We, uh, we haven’t spent much time together. Just nights,” Martin said.

“Why only nights?” Arthur wanted to know. “That’s weird. Is he allergic to daylight? I knew a girl like that.”

Martin cast about for a simple explanation. “It’s… it’s a thing he has to do. Like a geas.”

“Geese? How do geese keep secrets?” Arthur said.

Martin’s mouth opened but Douglas lifted a hand. “Allow me, my captain. It’s a little known fact, Arthur, that the geese of Britannia have long held a grudge against the gods of Greece. Because they were raised since time immemorial by those of Saxon and Norse beliefs, the geese naturally resent these god interlopers.”

“Really?”

“Indeed! And as Martin’s husband is of immigrant race and because geese are diurnal - that is, they are awake during the day - he would be attacked on sight during daylight hours.”

“Oh, no! Poor Skip.”

“And thus, poor Skip’s husband is constrained to visit him only at night, lest one of the fearsome waterfowl discover him. In fact, if any gods’ whereabouts are discovered, the goose will send up what is known as, ‘The Great Honk,’ calling his tribe -”

“All right, that’s enough, Douglas. Arthur, it’s not quite like that.”

Arthur grinned. “I don’t know, Skip. Geese can be pretty mean. I just didn’t know it was because I follow the Greek gods. Besides, having nights with him isn’t bad. He’s probably watching over you all the time.” He exited with his burden, leaving Douglas and Martin staring at each other.

“Did you have to tell him that ridiculous story?” Martin said.

“Yes,” Douglas said. “It was simpler than your explanation would have been, the upshot of which is this: your god’s reasons are beyond your ken. Mysterious. Arthur would never let you alone if it were a _mystery_.”

“Don’t call him my god.”

“What is he, if not yours?” Douglas tilted a brow.

“We’re joined. I don’t possess him.” The opposite was more likely. Besides, Martin’s allegiance had always been to Eros foremost. “Er, I can take care of the flight plans,” Martin said. Douglas shrugged.

“There’s time yet.”

Martin swallowed a comment about following procedure. He was this man’s captain now. They would be flying long stretches together and it was best to start their working relationship on the right footing. “Douglas. I wanted to say thank you. For arranging the hotel and, um. These.” Martin brushed a hand over the gleaming epaulettes. Douglas shrugged again and looked away.

“Think nothing of it, my captain.”

Douglas seemed so disinterested it threw Martin. “Okay. Thanks anyway. Where’s the altar? We should get the offerings done.”

“Oh, I never pray. But if you don’t mind doing the honours, follow me.” Douglas hooked the carrier bag from the desk and strode out, Martin almost jogging to keep pace.

“But that’s irresponsible!” Martin said. “How can you possibly be an effective pilot if you don’t offer tribute?”

Douglas stopped at an altar-board with a little shingle roof near the airfield’s tiny terminal building. “I never said I don’t make offerings - I just don’t pray. The gods know that for the most part it’s empty routine, but the gesture counts. As for for any problems that might arise, well.” He passed the bag to Martin. “Aside from my vast experience and frankly extraordinary talents, I like to think I’m just blessed with luck.”

“Oh, for the heavens’ sake.” Martin scowled at Douglas’ insouciance. Good thing for MJN he was their new captain. They’d never survive with such a lazy devotee as Douglas flying G-ERTI.

The altar-board was typical of those found in airports, filled with a jumble of symbols and depictions of gods of sky and air from around the world. Martin twisted open the cap on the tiny bottle of red wine and poured the last of it into a small plastic cup. Setting it on the wooden shelf before the painted image of Iris, he brushed the goddess’ face with his fingers. Eyes closed, he sent up a silent prayer for safe flight, lips moving with his words. Martin scanned for the Norse gods, the ones who still governed the northern borders of the United Kingdom. Odin needed his due for MJN’s upcoming trespass.

Martin pulled out a plastic bag that contained - _what in the world?_ A blueberry scone? Oh, well. He tore open a small salt packet, sprinkled it on the pastry and entreated the Norse god for safe passage. Douglas’ gaze on him was vaguely interested but he made no prayer himself.

“All done?” Douglas asked.

“Yes, fine,” Martin said, then blurted, “No, wait.” His eyes scanned the board - yes, there he was, some lovelorn traveller had tacked a card of Eros to the frame. After a marital union, it was customary to give thanks. Martin broke off a chunk of scone and pressed it to his lips. Behind him, Douglas exhaled and shifted. Martin hesitated.

Should he be thanking Eros? Eros had stood by and let Martin be herded into an arranged marriage, with a being he didn’t know or love. _No choice. No way out._ It still cut in spite of how tolerable he was finding his husband. His hand dropped and he replaced the bit of scone in front of Odin.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he mouthed to the painting of the one-eyed god.

 

Whether it was Martin’s own luck, Douglas’ lack of prayer or the mild insult of pinching Odin’s offering, the flight to Stornoway did not go smoothly. Higher than normal temperatures had been baking the country. An incoming cool front meant that though the stacks of puffy cumulous clouds were pretty, the conditions were as rough as any Martin had ever felt. He did everything from training - cut back speed, radioed for a different altitude, and tried to relax.

“Want me to take control for you?” Douglas asked. He almost sounded bored. Martin’s jaw tightened. Of course, Douglas the blessed, Air Britannia veteran would find this yawn-worthy. Damn it, Martin might be a rookie pilot, but he was not a child!

“No, thank you, _First Officer_ Richardson,” he said, stressing the title. Douglas lifted his hands away from the control column, brows raised. There was a knock. Arthur entered just as G-ERTI took another sickening plunge. Though Arthur kept his grasp on the mugs, the coffee leapt up and mostly failed to slosh back into its containers.

“Whoops! Sorry, chaps!”

“Were those our coffees? How kind, Arthur, I was just wanting one,” said Douglas. “Now I can enjoy the scent all day.”

Arthur braced against the door frame. “I’ll get you another, Douglas. Just let me clean that up.”

“Yes, please do, I’m sure that’s a health and safety issue,” Martin said.

“Pity,” Douglas said. “A coffee would have been perfect just now.”

“I dunno, Douglas. I think perfect is boring,” Arthur said. “Life is too brilliant for everything to need to be perfect, don't you think?”

“Be that as it may, Arthur,” Martin said. “Why are you here?”

“I’m the steward, Skip! I always bring the pilots their coffees.”

“Arthur,” chided Douglas. “The _captain_ put on the Fasten Seatbelts sign as we took off and has, in fact, not turned them off once.”

“In the case of extreme turbulence, it is procedure -” Martin’s stomach lurched as another updraught dropped the plane like an elevator with its cables cut. Arthur whooped - not with alarm, Martin noted with irritation, but enjoyment. There was an answering shout from the passenger area and a cheerful spate of commentary that was unintelligible.

“Our laird appears to be enjoying himself,” Douglas commented.

“Oh, yes, he’s belted in with a bottle of whisky. He’s got really Scottish since he started drinking. But I think he said something about how the flight’s like making a big drop?” Arthur screwed up his face.

“Gulf Echo Romeo Tango India to Glasgow ATC, requesting new altitude,” Martin said into his mike.

“Drop, as in a wee drop of the water of life?” Douglas asked Arthur.

“Glasgow to Gulf Echo Romeo Tango India. What, again?” the radio responded.

“No, something about surfing, he showed me before Mum made him put on his seat belt. Like this!” Arthur stood away from the wall and crouched with feet spread and arms akimbo. His eyes widened with delight as the plane popped up like a cork from a champagne bottle and dropped again. He hooted, knees flexing with the bouncing. An appreciative curse echoed from the back of the plane.

“Whee!” Douglas had lifted his arms like a teen on a roller coaster. Martin’s lips peeled back from his teeth and his hands tightened on the column. G-ERTI tilted and Arthur’s arms pin-wheeled.

 _Shit, shit, shit!_ Martin knew better than to fight the turbulence. He tried to relax his death grip, but the damage was done. Douglas was smirking at him. Martin pressed his lips together and looked forward.

“No need to to play the Red Baron, my captain.” Douglas tapped the altimeter. “The height differential is only twenty or thirty or feet. I’ve had worse.”

“Well, it seems rough in an aircraft this size!” Martin snapped. His nerves were frayed.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Arthur said. “I bet your husband is watching over you right this minute!” He squinted through the windshield. “Look, the clouds are going away. I think. No, I was wrong.”

“It’s going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day,” Douglas sang in a melting tone.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Martin said. He’d had enough of this circus. “I’m going to - to check on Lord Leverhulme and assure him that everything is fine. First Officer, you have - oh gods, oh gods! Control.” He gulped as the plane plunged again as if in spite.

“I have control,” Douglas repeated. Martin released his grip. Was it his imagination, or did the plane steady as he took his hands away? No… no, G-ERTI was flying as smooth as silk now. Carolyn’s voice could be heard reasoning with Lord Leverhulme, who seemed disappointed that the fun fair portion of the journey was finished. Martin unclipped his harness and walked away, cheeks burning with humiliation at this evidence of Douglas’ easy prowess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[The 9th day of Boedromion, beginning at sunset of the 8th, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

“And how was the flight back?” enquired the rich tones of Martin’s spouse.

Martin groaned. He was sprawled on his bed, boneless after an amazing full-body massage.

“Was fine,” he slurred into the sheets. “Made an apology offering t’Odin when we headed back out. No problems at all.” None, if he didn’t count his crushed pride. Granted, Douglas hadn’t said anything about Martin’s frazzled state, but Martin felt the older pilot’s amused condescension. Martin had looked less than capable in front of him and he couldn’t stand it. And Arthur was unnerving him with his talk of gods watching him all the time. It was creepy.

Hands smoothed over his shoulders. “You’re tensing up again,” his husband noted. “What’s wrong, pet?”

“It’s… well, the other pilot. Douglas Richardson. He’s… he’s so insufferable! He thinks he knows it all, just because he’s been flying since the dawn of time!” His husband tsk’ed and began to work at a knotted muscle. Martin went on, aggrieved. “I know he used to be with Air Britannia, but he could at least be more serious about this job, even if it’s for a small airline!”

His husband chuckled. “From what you’ve said, he does seem a character.” He pressed a soothing kiss to Martin’s shoulder blade. “Don’t let him bother you, darling. I’m sure you’ll be professional enough for the both of you.” Thumbs dug into the muscles by Martin’s spine in a long stroke up his back and he sighed.

“Thanks.” Though Martin was beginning to wonder if he had enough professionalism to make up for both Douglas _and_ Arthur. He groaned as something in his neck popped. “I’ll let it go. For now.” _Gods, those hands were wonderful, a gift from the gods._

“Well, they are, in a way, sweet. But thank you.” His spouse’s voice was warm.

Gods, he’d mumbled that aloud. But Martin couldn’t even summon a flicker of embarrassment, he felt so relaxed.

“Ah.” His husband sounded satisfied. Hands ran over him once last time before a naked  body slid down beside Martin. “You’ve no flight tomorrow, have you?” At Martin’s negation, his husband kissed his cheek. “Good. I hope you won’t mind getting up early.” The tone of his voice insinuated much.

Martin snorted his opinion of the jest and tucked his head against his husband's shoulder. This was good, talking over his day. No one before had been interested in Martin’s aviation talk. It was nice, coming home to someone.

 _Where else can you go?_ a small voice niggled. Martin turned his face away, denying the thought. He would never sleep otherwise.

“Sweet dreams, Martin.” The voice was soft. His thumb brushed a curl from Martin’s face. Martin swallowed his guilt and forced a smile into the darkness that was his husband.

“Good night.”


	8. Those Whom the Gods Would Destroy... They First Send to Work at MJN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finds his job rather trying and his husband rather sweet. And, well, sexy.

In spite of his husband's touching confidence in him, Martin found his new job a lot more trying than he’d anticipated. Not the flying, he was never happier than when G-ERTI rose from the earth. But it didn't get easier, nor did it get better. Martin was beginning to doubt there was enough professionalism in the world to make up for MJN's deficits. Or the irritation of working with Douglas. But he did his best. Oh, how he _tried._

Martin found he was losing his respect for Douglas’ experience, undeniable skill and, well, to be completely honest with himself even though he was raised better, his age. In fact, Martin was fast coming to the conclusion that Douglas had much more in common with Arthur when it came to emotional maturity and good decision making. He certainly was _not_ professional. Neither of them were.

 

 

Exhibit A: Bored Arthurs Are Akin to a Thunderbolt From Zeus. Otherwise known as the ‘Incident with the Drinks Trolley.’

 

 

[The 11th of Pyanepsion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, autumn]

 

After their film crew customers were deposited in Spain, Douglas was operating back. Martin could swear he’d been in the loo only a few minutes, but that was time enough for mischief to be managed. Martin opened the door and stepped out, brushing down his shirt. His balance wobbled as G-ERTI angled nose down, then up at a sharp angle. _What in the heavens?_ He looked up at a rumbling noise that was growing louder.

“Look out, Skip!” Crouched on top of the drinks trolley, Arthur barrelled down the aisle straight for him. Martin screamed and flattened himself against the door. But just before painful impact (and after Martin’s short life had passed before his eyes), the trolley caught a corner on an armrest and bucked Arthur off in a flurry of arms, legs and drink straws.

“Arthur! What are you doing?” Martin exclaimed, hand engaged in shoving a heart trying to escape back between his ribs.

“Ow.” Arthur disentangled himself from seat he’d fallen into. “Sorry about that, Skip. You didn’t want to play Charades...”

“Neither did Douglas,” Martin excused himself.

“And so Douglas suggested some Trolley Surfing to cheer me up! It’s brilliant, you need to give it a go! You see, what you do is pull the plane down, someone gets on top of the trolley and gives the signal and…”

“Yes, fine, I worked it out. But… But…” Martin couldn’t bring himself to quash Arthur’s excitement. He cast about for the best phrase to convey all that was wrong with the situation. He settled for, “I can’t. A wheel’s broken off the trolley.”

It had. Arthur’s grin dimmed. “Oh. Mum won’t like that.”

“Never mind. Just, er. Pick up the straws. I need a word with Douglas about… er. Flying.”

“Right-o! Should I put them back?”

Martin shuddered. “No!” Was Carolyn _that_ tight-fisted?

“Oh, I know! I’ll use them to make a straw sculpture! Like… a unicorn! There’s some sellotape in one of the lockers.”

“Good idea. I’ll leave you to it.” Martin patted Arthur’s shoulder before making his way to the flight deck. “Douglas! What were you thinking?”

Douglas smiled at him before turning back, large hands steady on the throttle. “Thinking? Why, of _you_ , my captain.”

“What?” Martin’s cheeks flamed. Douglas hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, had he? "Ex-excuse me?"

“Of how your sanity and my patience would have been eroded by a bored Arthur. And before you can say it, no, locking him out of the flight deck doesn’t help. I tried once but he has a peculiarly carrying voice and a fine repertoire of songs from _The Muppets_.”

Martin’s embarrassment disappeared under a flash of righteous fury. “No, not that! I meant, what do you mean by, by…” Clarity evaporated under Douglas’ raised brow. Martin got out, “Arthur nearly ran me down! On a loaded drinks trolley!”

“That would have been an interesting one to explain to the insurance company, I’ll give you that,” Douglas mused. “Would Arthur be charged with driving with opened bottles of alcohol, or just vehicular homicide? Tell me he didn’t break any, Carolyn hates spillage.”

Martin’s mouth opened and closed a few times while he absorbed Douglas’ callous disregard for Martin’s near-demise. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the spot between his brows where a headache was forming. “No, no broken bottles. Well, the trolley's busted.” Douglas groaned and Martin snapped. “But that’s not the point! You can’t just drop and gain altitude like that! G-ERTI’s not some kind of roller coaster to entertain Arthur! It’s irresponsible! And dangerous. What if there’d been another aircraft, or if Arthur had hurt himself?” _Or crushed my ribs against a bulkhead?_   “The minute my back was turned -”

“Relax,” Douglas drawled. “No other aeroplanes about, I checked. It was just a bit of harmless fun. An old Air Britannia game.”

“I don’t care what you got up to at your old firm, but in my plane -”

“I think you’ll find it’s Carolyn’s.”

“Whatever! As the captain, I forbid any games of Trolley Surfing in the future. Understood?”

Douglas heaved a put-upon sigh. “Spoilsport.”

And that sorted that, aside from Carolyn’s refusing to buy another drink trolley, forcing Arthur to keep busy running drinks and food back and forth with a tray. Well, maybe that was for the best.

His husband had laughed at the tale, but smoothed Martin’s bristling by kissing him. “I am glad Arthur didn’t hurt you with the cart, dearest. He would have been most distraught. Brutal of Douglas not to care about your well-being, though.”

“Yes. Yes, it jolly well was.” Martin brooded. “It’s unbelievable he got away with that at Air Britannia. It’s… it’s just sloppy aviation!” He choked on a sudden giggle as light fingers tickled up his sides.

“Forget about that for now, sweet. Just keep an eye on him in the future and remind him of his position. After all, you are the captain, are you not?” Martin twisted as his ribs were assaulted again. “Funny captain,” the rich voice purred. “You do make me laugh.”

“Oh, oh! Stop that!” Martin dug his own fingers against the chest beneath him and was rewarded with a convulsive twist of his husband’s body. “Ha. See who’s laughing now?”

“Still me,” puffed his husband. Martin couldn’t help grinning. The battle was joined, and if the gasps of laughter devolved into the heavy exhalations of another type of enjoyment later, well. Martin was getting used to that, he supposed.

 

 

Exhibit B: The Pain Of Diverting, only surpassed by The Horror Of Arthur’s Puppy Eyes and Being One-Upped by Douglas

 

 

[15th of Poseideon, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, autumn]

 

Martin knew, _knew_ he had been correct to divert to Bristol. With the fuel running low and the excessive delay at Fitton, it had been the correct choice. The safe choice. Quashing Douglas’ ridiculous and frankly criminal suggestion about faking the scent of smoke in the flight deck had been right as well.

It had felt good to insist on formal titles as well. Martin was the captain, why shouldn’t he be called Sir? Though Martin had found himself avoiding Douglas’ murderous glare every time the other man had curled his tongue around the title as if it were a tainted pill to be spat out. The fiery smoulder in those dark eyes was unnerving.

Bristol had been the best choice. Carolyn didn’t agree - vehemently and with firm financial reasons she hammered into Martin. Brow-beaten into a cost-cutting trip to Abu Dhabi, horrified by Arthur’s Surprising Rice, Martin had begun to feel quite, well. Not homesick, per se, but it would be nice to have someone as sympathetic as his god-husband around during daylight hours.

But not even Arthur was on his side once it came out that Martin had doomed the client’s cat to icy death by forgetting to turn on the cargo hold heating.

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, I _can’t_ divert! Carolyn will kill me!”

“But it’s just a poor little kitty,” Arthur pleaded.

“It’s not! The damned thing savaged you! It’s a Hades-cat! But… oh, please, Zeus, Hera, anyone! I don’t want the cat to die! Carolyn will still murder me.” Martin’s teeth chafed at his lower lip.

“Well, _Sir,_ ” Douglas stressed the title with sweet venom, clearly enjoying Martin’s predicament, “we'll be flying over Egypt in another few hours. Perhaps Sir could proffer some heartfelt prayers to Osiris to revivify the moggy?”

“Would that work?” Martin asked. Arthur vibrated with hope.

“Nah,” Douglas said. Martin’s heart plummeted. “On second thought,” Douglas continued, “Best to go around Egypt if you can. The goddess Bast may not feel very happy about a cat-murderer venturing into her territory.”

“Oh, _gods._ ”

“If we’re lucky, word won’t get to Sekhmet. Lioness of War versus G-ERTI? I wouldn’t chance it. _Sir._ ”

“What would you do?” Martin was frozen with indecision, to Douglas’ evident pleasure.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly advise you. This paradoxical Catch-22 is a command problem, Captain Yossarian.”

“Is this more of your so-elite Air Britannia slang, Douglas?” Martin yelped. “Captain _who_?”

“Wish we had a Captain Who,” Arthur said. “He could go back in time and save the cat.”

“No, he couldn’t, Arthur,” Douglas said, “and for two good reasons. One, it’s _Doctor_ Who, and two, he’s doesn’t really exist.”

“Oh.”

Douglas twisted the knife more. “Time for a decision, _sir_. Thumbs up for the cat and down for you? Or thumbs down all round?”

“You all right, Skip?” Arthur looked concerned. “Only you’re a bit grey-ish and… moist. Save the kitty? Please, you’re the captain! Don’t listen to Douglas! What you say goes, and I’m sure the gods will be happy if you save a little cat.”

There was no easy way out. _Carolyn, dead cat, diverting, or death?_ Martin slumped. No, Carolyn wouldn't kill him. She’d want him to leave, free pilot or not. Who could afford a captain who made two expensive mistakes in a single week? Martin ground the heel of his hand into his eye. Could he get another job flying? _Will your husband let you,_ whispered the voice of his deepest fear.

No, no, he couldn’t let himself think that way. Carolyn. Dead cat. Diverting. Death or... impending unemployment. Martin swallowed thick resignation. “Well, nothing for it. Fine. We’ll divert.”

“Oh, thank you, Skip! I’ll get some warm milk ready!”

“A fine command decision, Cap...tain?” Douglas eyed Martin. Martin turned his face away, hiding his no-doubt woebegone expression. Douglas exhaled heavily. There was a crackle as a match was struck. “Captain Crieff,” Douglas said in a formal, respectful tone. “I do believe I smell smoke in the flight deck. We’d better request an immediate emergency diversion.”

 

 

“But wasn’t that very kind of… what was your clever coworker’s name again? Richard?” The deep voice rumbled against Martin’s back as he leaned against his husband.

“Douglas. Douglas Richardson.”

“Yes, Douglas. Douglas saved you getting murdered by Carolyn, Bast, Sekhmet or becoming a felisocide. Aren’t you grateful?” Martin’s hand was lifted, fingers toying with his own.

“No!” Martin clenched his hand convulsively around his husband's. “Yes.” He turned his face against the column of throat by his head. “Maybe.”

His husband hummed in an enquiring tone. Martin groaned, pressing his nose harder against warm skin. Gods, Douglas’ smirk when Martin radioed in for the diversion! After the commotion Martin had made previously about reporting non-existent fires! It was the perfect set-up. Douglas had simultaneously offered Martin an escape from his predicament as well as getting his own back.

Martin had sweated with nerves as the mechanic looked G-ERTI over, praying to Tyche that the man wouldn’t turn him in with accusations of false reports. Carolyn would hate the fines more than the expense of the diversion. _Douglas managed to make me as deceitful as himself._ No, his husband would get annoyed with Douglas if he said that, it wasn’t fair. Martin had to admit that his own foul luck was responsible for landing himself in that position in the first place, by forgetting to turn on the hold heater for the cat. He said instead, “He made me feel like an idiot. I mean, I know I’m sometimes an idiot…”

“Don’t talk that way about my consort, please. And don’t worry about your decision - as a god, I laud your near-sacrifice of your job by saving a cat’s life. It was kind, Martin.” Martin’s fist was eased open, his hand clasped. Laughter trembled in his husband’s voice as he continued, “At least you made Douglas address you properly. ‘Sir’! That must have galled him.”

“He’s always calling me ‘my captain’, even though I’ve told him not to. It’s weird. ‘Sir’ sounded better. And it’s more respectful. I’m not _his_ _._ ”

“But dearest, what is it about this mortal that causes you such unrest?”

“It’s just…” He trailed off. Douglas, with his off-hand kindnesses and overt superiority caused such a confluence of conflicting emotions in Martin that he couldn’t stand it. Him. _All of it_. “He gets on my nerves,” Martin summarised. “He’s so… so _unprofessional._ Distracts me. Makes me less professional by association.”

“We can’t have that,” his husband murmured. “Distracting you is my job, after all.”

Martin’s mouth curled the tiniest amount, knowing his partner would feel the motion against his skin. “I’m a job?”

“Ah, a jest at last. Yes, indeed. You are my job, my task, my industry of Martin. Martinising? No, that doesn’t sound right, best not to mangle such a perfect name with unnecessary noun-ing and verb-ing. My five-to-nine, when it’s not blasted summer with its horrible short nights. Ah, laughing, even better, though you shouldn’t, you are a serious _business._ ”

“Hard work,” Martin chuckled and dared to reach his free hand up to stroke smooth hair. The chest behind heaved in a sigh of agreement.

“You’ve no idea.”

 

 

Martin was thankful he'd managed to quash Carolyn's idea about letting it be known that one of her pilots had otherworldly connections.

“If it gets out, I'll never have any privacy again. Reporters, tabloids...." he pleaded. They were all in the Portakabin working through paperwork under Carolyn’s sharp eye. Carolyn’s musing aloud as she worked over her ledgers had jerked Martin’s attention away from his own calculations for a cargo haul.

"Free advertising. The cachet of having a god’s spouse at MJN would draw customers," Carolyn retorted. “Rich ones.”

“I don’t want notoriety!”

Douglas chimed in with a lifted brow. "Oh, my captain, you sound almost _embarrassed_ to be married to a heavenly being. Not ashamed of him, are you?"

"That's none of your business!” Martin retorted. “Carolyn, you can't.” The idea of the attention he’d draw if he was outed made his stomach churn.

“Why not?” Arthur said. “Isn’t it lucky to have a god’s husband on G-ERTI? I always thought we were lucky to have you, Skip.”

“Ah, the safety angle,” Douglas said. “Good one, Arthur. Though I have my doubts concerning Martin’s luck.”

Martin pressed a hand to his forehead. “Thanks so much Douglas. Arthur, marriage to an immortal isn't a guarantee of immortality for myself! Or passengers!"

Arthur giggled. “I bet the gods are really busy looking out for you! It must be brilliant! Though it’s kind of like a business, isn’t it? Morning to night Martin-watching. Do gods get tired?”

Martin stiffened at Arthur’s words.

Carolyn cocked her head. "Arthur has a point. We'd have the best reputation for safety of any charter in the world!""

"I - I just don't know. I can't take that responsibility. Please, Carolyn."

She sniffed. "Fine. I’ll put out of my mind the pots of money we could be getting from customers wanting to flying Immortal’s Beloved Charter. I’ll just remind myself that I have a free pilot. Pity about the insurance savings."

Douglas stirred. "That is rather a good name for the business, Carolyn. Would you consider -?"

Arthur’s eyes widened. “IBC. Wow.”

"No, I wouldn't, Douglas. MJN we are and shall remain. When you have an airline and an immortal spouse of your own, feel free to thieve my idea."

"Aw, Mum,” Arthur complained. His mobile chimed and he pulled it out, face bright. “Oh, brilliant! Bitsy! I wonder what she wants.” He began tapping a reply.

Martin ducked his head. "Thanks, Carolyn."

Carolyn waved it away. "Yes, yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make an offering. MJN needs all the help it can get." She breezed out before Martin felt guilty enough to apologise for shutting down her idea.

Douglas put his feet up as soon as the door closed behind her. “But seriously, Martin. You seem to be a magnet for misfortune. Have you ever considered prayers to Tyche? I’d share some of my own luck, but I enjoy it too much.”

“He doesn’t need it, Skip’s got us,” Arthur said. “I think Bitsy could use a little luck. Oh, I know!”

Martin watched Arthur as he texted, lips moving as he typed. Arthur at first sight was an unlikely matchmaker, but his excited babbling at the number of friends he’d set up indicated that he had good insight. Uncanny, even. The saga of Bitsy and Ned would shortly be en-route to a happily ever after, if Arthur’s track record held.

Martin felt a bubble of jealousy break in his throat. _Too bad I hadn’t met Arthur before I married!_ A normal relationship, meeting at a restaurant for a date - Hades, even going for a walk in the sunlight! Normal as he’d known it was gone forever. Even his growing appreciation for his husband’s companionship was no match for this rush of resentment.

“Misfortune? Right,” he said. “What do you know about needing luck, Douglas? Or praying? Prayers didn’t help me when I needed it most.”

Douglas’ expression was curious. “What do you mean?”

Martin gripped his pencil and kept his head down, avoiding Douglas’ gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.” _Pray to Tyche. Ha._

Arthur wriggled in his chair, grinning at his phone. “Bitsy says she’s going to pop the question to Ned!” He lifted his arms in excitement. “Brilliant!”

Douglas only shook his head. Martin shrugged away his disquiet and kept his eyes on his paperwork.

 

 

In spite of himself, Martin began to wonder if perhaps he ought to have heeded Douglas’ advice about praying for luck. Strange mishaps, misunderstandings and madness at MJN followed him. There was that passenger who had an inexplicable hatred of red-headed men. for one. In spite of his best efforts, Martin had been spotted and the man had set up such a screech that  _Douglas_ had resorted to plying the man with pre-flight drinks while Arthur had helpfully shoved Martin into a locker. Unhelpfully, Arthur had then been called away by Carolyn. Martin had been stuck for a claustrophobic half-hour with his phone battery dying. Arthur _had_ freed him after a flurry of calls and texts recalled his erratic memory. But Martin was left with a dislike of the scent of old metal and a hatred of people with red-head phobia. Or whatever it was called, if it was even a real thing! It hadn't helped that Douglas had smirked all flight and Carolyn had called him, 'Carrots' the rest of the week.

Then there'd been the time Martin had slipped on G-ERTI’s steps, ripped the entire length of his trousers, and flew wearing the only thing that could be found in a hurry. It had taken Martin three days to track down every copy of the photo that had mysteriously been posted around Fitton Airfield. Hades take it, no one would take him seriously! Especially not with that image of him looking a captain from the waist up and wearing Arthur’s red nylon gym shorts below! He knew Arthur had been trying to help, but still. He was sure Douglas was behind that prank.

Even G-ERTI conspired against him, warning lights going on and off at intermittent times when he was in control. Well, that could be down to G-ERTI’s age, but it didn’t change the fact that when Douglas flew, she behaved. Martin was tired of radioing of possible emergencies, only to cancel them. He was sure the ATCs all over Europe thought he was a paranoid idiot. He wasn’t, only safety-minded!

Brooding over these issues, Martin decided the best thing he could do to prepare for the day G-ERTI’s wings dropped off, was to practice. With a new appreciation for the money his husband had gifted him, Martin bought the latest version of MS Flight Simulator with the expensive peripherals. He selected the plane closest to G-ERTI in type and began to play in his free time. And played. And played some more, using every kind of problem he could program into the sim. Douglas teased him about his expanding knowledge and groaned when Martin insisted on more safety briefings. Carolyn had rolled her eyes and fiddled with paperwork, while Arthur wriggled and asked bizarre non-sequitir questions that distracted Martin. But he persevered.

If it weren’t for his husband keeping him sane at nights, Martin wasn't sure what he'd do. Even if he still hadn’t managed to pin his husband’s identity and his attempts at teasing the information out made his husband chuckle, it was… okay. Good, and that wasn’t taking into account the bounty his sex life had become. Martin talked, and his spouse listened. It was a refreshing change from work. As Martin made more mistakes and looked ever more foolish when flying, he found himself longing to escape Carolyn’s sardonic glances and Douglas’ smirks. Well, who wouldn’t look silly in contrast to Douglas? Perfect, lucky, irritating Douglas.

 

 

 

Exhibit C: Douglas Was Horrible to Martin in All Ways, Especially When it Came to Distracting Martin From His Duties in Unprofessional Ways. Again.

 

 

[14th of Anthesterion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, winter]

 

“Oh, come on, Martin. It’s the simplest of games we could play on the flight deck, and we've not much time left! Even Arthur might be able to manage it,” Douglas cajoled. “You even have a chance to win this one. The person who forces a Dare answer from the other takes the next cheese tray.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to play.”

“I hesitate to bring this up, my captain…”

“I’m _the_ captain, not your captain! At least, not the way you say it,” Martin protested.

“But you were very quick off the mark asking me, oh, how did you put it? ‘Have you _really_ ever got off with an immortal, Douglas, or were you stretching the truth yet again?’ Tsk, Captain Crieff. You can’t start a game and quit midway.” Douglas shook his head.

Martin fiddled with his safety strap. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. It was unprofessional.”

“The nature of the game.” Douglas flicked a switch. “Gulf Tango India to Fitton ATC, requesting permission to begin our approach.”

The radio crackled. “Fitton to Golf Tango India. Hullo Douglas. Sorry, I’ll need you to take an extra lap around. Be advised there’s a delay due to ducks. Ducklings, actually. The fire crew is trying to herd them off now.”

“Right. Thanks, Karl.”

Martin grimaced at the informality of the exchange. Douglas banked G-ERTI.

“Your burning curiousity about my love life intrigues me, Martin. Dare this this old sky god dream?”

Douglas was mocking him. _As usual_. “No, he may not!” Martin knew his ears were red.

Douglas smiled at Martin’s discomfiture. “I answered your question, captain mine.”

“‘Yes,’ isn’t much of an answer!”

“Well, if you’d wanted more details, you ought to have phrased it differently. For example, ‘Douglas, is the number of immortals you’ve shagged blind with pleasure more than the number of players on a football team?’” Douglas snorted. “Golf Tango India to Fitton. Karl, how’s it looking down there? Ducklings all in a row and duck-marched off?”

“All clear, Golf Tango India. You’re free to come in. Hope you enjoyed your brief scenic tour of lovely Fitton.”

“An inspiring sight as always, Karl. Out.” The plane tilted again as Douglas began to bring them round to line up with the runway. “As I’m in a good mood in spite of your insinuating that I lied about my conquests, I’ll give you hint about the number of them. A football team’s worth is a small number, captain. And I’m not even including three ex-wives.” The lascivious smile he threw at Martin prickled the skin on Martin’s back. “There. You have a generous answer. Now it’s my turn. Truth or Dare, Captain Crieff.”

“Douglas…”

“If your exes were formed into a sports team, complete with shirts that read ‘Crieff Companions’, would you have enough for… ah…” Douglas spared a glance at Martin. “A bobsled team?”

Martin saw red. Yes, his relationships had been few and far between compared to his sexual encounters. But that’s what Douglas thought of him? “I have control,” he snapped.

Douglas frowned. “No, I do, and you are trying to avoid the question as well as force a draw.”

“First Officer Richardson, I have control,” Martin said through clenched teeth.

Douglas lifted his hands away in exaggerated care. “You have control, Captain.” He began whistling under his breath. Martin hissed in annoyance.

“Gulf Tango India to Fitton ATC, we’re coming round and ready to approach. Over.”

“Martin? Isn’t Douglas operating?” Karl was confused.

“Fitton ATC, can you please be more professional? Over,” Martin said.

Douglas cut into Karl’s offended retort. “Mon Capitaine has _control_ , Karl. But in reality, he’s trying to avoid the exes as sports team question.”

“I am not!” Martin knew he was.

“Oh, Truth or Dare? Mine’s a sumo stable’s worth,” Karl offered.

“Rubenesque and combative? That doesn’t surprise me. Just your type.”

“Love a good grapple.”

“ _Fitton ATC, First Officer_ , will you stop the chatter?” Martin shouted. “Over.” He thumbed the cabin address system. “Cabin crew, prepare for final descent.”

Douglas had the nerve to chuckle. “I’ve never had a type the way Karl does, but I’ve been developing a taste recently...” His voice dropped into a deep, rich register. that licked at Martin’s nervous system.

Martin tensed, trying to control his reaction. Gods damn it, when Douglas used that tone, the timbre... _did_ things to his insides. _Just think of your husband_ , Martin told himself. _Your funny, sexy husband and his, his sexy god-like voice, which is nothing like Douglas Richardson’s!_ Too much sex, that was the problem. His long-starved libido was alive and ready to leap into action over the least provocation. Damn Douglas and his stupid voice to Hades and back.

“Engage the landing gear, First Officer.” Martin spared a moment to swipe a hand over his sweating forehead.

“Landing gear fully extended and engaged, Captain,” Douglas purred. Martin didn’t dare look at him as the runway rose to meet G-ERTI. He fumbled for the flap lever. Douglas continued, “Rather the way my thoughts are often engaged these days by wiry, uptight types with a firm knowledge of when to take _control_ _._ ”

There was a whining noise that Martin was sure was coming from his tight throat. _Oh, fuck, Douglas will never let me forget this!_ But the noise escalated to a full throated mechanical howl as G-ERTI touched and slewed with a jerk, nose tipping towards the ground. With the speed borne of adrenalin-fuelled panic and Flight Simulator-trained muscle memory, Martin’s hand went to the flap lever. Gods, it wasn’t engaged, he’d grabbed the wrong lever! He released it and pulled the correct one. G-ERTI righted and rolled to a halt.

There was a long pause. A wisp of smoke from G-ERTI’s stressed tyres drifted up past the windshield. The clangour of the fire engine was approaching. Douglas finally spoke.

“Well, old sky-god that I am, I’ve been around and seen much. But that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone land with the parking brake on.”

 

 

Eros listened to his darling rant.

“...And Carolyn told me I wasn’t worth my salary. The fire crew were crying with laughter! I mean, there’s going to be an enquiry and it’s going to make me look incompetent and, and… I’m at the end of my tether, I really am.”

Eros loosened Martin’s grip on the sheet. “Sweet, you’re going to puncture the linens.”

Martin’s face was a picture. Eros’ heart gave an odd lurch at the sight. Though he was jealous of the brightness of Martin's spark post-flying, he disliked the misery and frustration Martin radiated at the moment.

“It was an accident, was it not?” he asked.

Martin bared his teeth in a spurt of frustration. “Whoever engineered the flap lever and parking brake to look similar and put them next to each other should be strapped to a rock for seagulls to peck to death.”

“Why not an eagle?”

“Because it will take longer,” Martin said. His blood thirst switched to indignation. “If bloody Douglas hadn’t distracted me by -” He snapped his mouth shut.

“By what?”

“It’s not important,” Martin mumbled. “But I’m sure he did it on purpose.”

“You landed the plane without anyone being hurt,” Eros pointed out. “Is that not enough good fortune?”

“Yes, landed and nearly shredded the tyres. A mechanic is going over G-ERTI to see if the gears were strained. I don’t think Tyche’s grace rained upon me, do you?”

Eros blew a breath out. “Then who will you give thanks to, little ingrate? Someone must have their due.”

Martin looked up. _He really is getting good at gauging where my face is,_ Eros thought. “Athena. If I hadn’t spent all that time on the PC with the flight sim, I wouldn’t have been quick enough.”

Eros had to chuckle. “You’re right. Your self-education stood you in good stead today. But what with all your difficulties at work, I’m beginning to wonder if you are in the right profession.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Eros could see that in the way Martin’s shoulders tightened. _Eros, you are a feather-head_ , he scolded himself. _Don’t push at his love of flying, it’ll make him obstinate._ He backpedalled. “I mean, is there something I can do about your coworkers? They don’t appear to hold you in much esteem. I can help, you know. I love helping.”

"Ha. You sound like Arthur." Martin blinked several times but his shoulders relaxed. “Carolyn’s my boss. And she terrifies me, but maybe that's par for the course - she terrifies everyone. Arthur’s not a problem… He does try to look out for me, as odd as that sounds. He’s nice.” His nose wrinkled. “Douglas -  I don’t know. He’s good fun at times, but I get the feeling he’s just waiting for me to screw up so badly that he’d get to be a captain again. He never lets me forget he used to be one. I’m even wearing his old epaulettes! Did I tell you he gave them to me? That was nice. But he’s just so…”

“Superior? Patronising? Lucky?” Eros recited Martin’s usual refrain concerning his coworker.

Martin hunched a shoulder. “Sorry. I don’t mean to go on about him so much.” He took Eros’ wrist. “Thanks for listening to me whinge. Again. You’re… it’s nice.”

“Not at all. You and Arthur being friends I can deal with, though I’m slightly jealous.” Eros quipped. “This Douglas, however…”

“Right. I don’t want to talk about him any more,” Martin said. “I think I’d prefer to, um…”

Eros grinned. One of the things he enjoyed about Martin was his intermittent bouts of shyness in the midst of his growing sexual skill. “Is the captain going to take control?”

Martin blushed but lifted his chin. “I am. If you’re up for it?”

“I am, as you say, up for it, and even down, if the captain wishes. Will the captain be handling the take-off or the landing this evening?”

Martin made gagging noises. “No aviation innuendos, I’m begging you.”

“Yes, sir. Pre-flight checks cancelled, then?” Eros extracted the lubricant from the bedside table and flung himself prone. His heart swelled with warmth as Martin clambered over to cage him with arms and legs. He caught Martin’s mouth in a kiss. Martin pulled away to brush his mouth over Eros’ ear.

“Besides, we’ll both be flying tonight.”

“That’s terrible!” Eros shook with laughter that escaped in a groan as Martin lowered his body against his in a sure slide of skin over skin. “You have control, love.”


	9. Low Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is at his lowest ebb at MJN. But he's going to do something about that, in his Martin-ish way - with determination and on his own.

 

[26th of Mounichion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, spring]

 

Martin sat on the edge of his bed in his Toronto hotel room, running his fingers over his captain’s hat. Did it smell of lemon? He picked at a piece of tape still stuck to the fabric. He’d given his impassioned speech on being a professional pilot to Nancy Dean Liebhart - with a lemon taped to his hat.

Professional.

Martin was cold and defeated. Never had he looked less like a real pilot than he had during the gods-cursed flight to Qikiqtarjuaq. It threw the ‘landing with brakes on’ into the shade. Martin rubbed at a sticky patch left by the tape over and over until it smeared. He’d thought that perhaps Douglas and he were friends. He should have known better.

Martin swallowed. Nothing on this realm would move him from this room tonight. He’d order up from room service and charge it to his own card. Better alone than facing Carolyn and Douglas after today's events.

Martin stroked the braid on his hat. Douglas’ words slid through his mind again, a cutting retort so keen Martin hadn’t even realised how much he was bleeding until now.

‘What actually separates professionals from amateurs, Captain Crieff, is being paid to do the job – the way Carolyn pays me.’ Douglas’ voice had been hard. The rest of the sentence, though unspoken, may as well have been shouted. _And you, Martin Crieff, are an amateur. You work because your husband is indulgent of your little mortal whims._

Fine, so Martin didn't need the money! Carolyn had once alluded to the fact that paying just one pilot’s salary helped keep the company afloat. That didn't matter. What mattered was that until today Martin had been a professional pilot in his own mind, at least. That is, until Douglas had torn down that illusion.

Martin’s hands tightened on his hat until it threatened to crumple. He set it aside. Douglas wasn't entirely to blame. Martin shouldn't have told Nancy he’d discipline Douglas. Gods, why had he done that? To Douglas, an experienced and skilled pilot, being upbraided by a captain twenty years his junior had to be unbearable. But Martin wanted so much to be seen as a professional pilot. He had a bone-deep need to appear capable, knowledgeable and as authoritative as, well, as Douglas. Okay, he was a stickler for rules and procedure, but that was only good sense. But it was _impossible_ to act the captain with Carolyn and Douglas.

Douglas. Douglas, who had tricked him into a mortifying cabin address not once, but twice.

Why had Martin gone along with it, gods, why had he not just reversed the tables by saying, ‘Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, I’d just like to make a correction. Far from being French, I was born in Wokingham. My first officer is a tad forgetful. His age, you know.’ That would have shown Douglas! But that was the story of Martin’s life. The fit of his hind-sight goggles didn’t even pinch much any more, he was so used to things going wrong.

The thing was, Martin knew he was insecure. Douglas was just so…  perfect. Forget about the chain of command, he had Sisyphus' chances of getting that boulder to the top of the mountain of impressing his authority on Douglas. The only times he’d ever managed it was because Douglas _let_ him. And that was just - humiliating.

The thing was, in spite of Douglas’ casual ways, Martin did admire Douglas’ abilities and experience. How could he not? But Douglas didn’t respect him.

Amazing how that hurt.

“Captain Perfect,” Martin said aloud. “The consummate professional.” He rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands.

His phone trilled. He let it ring several times before pulling it out with slow movements. “Hello.”

“Martin,” his husband said. His mellifluous voice was dimmed by the small speaker but still rich and otherworldly. “It’s dark here, and the world is a lonely and cold place without you here to warm it.”

“You don’t notice the cold, I do,” Martin said.

“True,” his husband said. “I find myself becoming inured to having icy feet thrust against me in the night.”

Martin laughed a little. “Yeah.”

“How was your flight?”

 _Awful._ “Fine, fine. We - we saw some bears. They were fine. Arthur was thrilled. It was fine.” _Douglas nearly crashed us and I begged him to stop like a frightened child while an entire plane listened._

The line hummed between them.

“Four ‘fines’. Patently, you’re not,” his husband said. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

“I’m the same as always,” Martin said. _An amateur. A failure as a pilot and a professional._ He coughed to clear his throat of growing thickness.

“Really.”

“I miss you,” Martin said with unexpected honesty. It was true, but he’d never said it before.

This did not go unnoticed. His husband sounded more concerned. “I’ll come to you. Give me some time -”

“I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“And now you’ve managed to make me more worried. Martin, I want to be there with you. You obviously need me. I want to help.”

“Oh.” Martin swallowed. “You’re… you’re great. I don’t think I’ve told you that. But I’ll be okay. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You can’t rush into other gods’ territories just because your husband is a bit down.”

“I’ll dare it. I want to see you, love,” his husband said, voice low. “I hate that you’re alone just now.”

There was a soft knock. Martin jolted. “Sorry, there’s someone at the door.”

“Martin...” his husband said.

“I’ll call you back,” Martin said, standing up. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

“All right.”

Martin clicked off the phone. The knock came a second time, louder. Martin peered through the spyhole and his mouth thinned. He unhooked the chain and opened the door. Douglas stood outside, hand raised to knock a third time. Martin held the door half-closed, blocking the entrance.

“Douglas. What do you want?”

“I came to see if you were coming down for dinner,” Douglas said.

Martin looked at Douglas a long moment. Douglas’ eyebrows began going up as the silence stretched. “Martin? Is your answer perchance written on my face with lipstick?”

The joke rolled off Martin’s numb state. “What? Oh. It’s nothing. Was just waiting.”

“For what?” Douglas tilted his head. A flicker of loathing licked at the shell coating Martin’s emotions.

“Nothing that will ever come, apparently,” Martin said. “Because this is me, and you’re you.”

Douglas’ brow creased. “Pardon?”

“Nothing. You came to ask - well, it wasn’t a question, was it? You wondered whether I was coming to have dinner with everyone? No. The answer is no. I’m ordering up.”

Douglas looked taken aback. “Oh.”

 _Why so surprised, Douglas? All in a day’s work, reducing me to a joke? You just carry on regardless, don’t you._ Martin gave Douglas a false smile. “Yes. D-don't trouble yourself.”

“You always like a meal with us during trips. Why not tonight?” Douglas’ eyes moved up and down, as if examining Martin for clues as to his current behaviour.

“You want reasons.” Martin’ tight throat produced something that was not quite a laugh. “That’s funny, the first officer questioning his captain about his choices. And no, we’re not flying now, but still. You do it _all the time_.”

“If this is about the thing with that dreadful travel rep -”

Martin cut across Douglas’ annoyed tone. For once, the words just came straight from his burning heart without stutter or stammer.

“Why won’t I have dinner with you tonight - let’s see. How about, because it was pointed out to me today that I am a glorified hobbyist that flies for fun. Ergo, I can pay my own way. Or, or how about the fact I have no right to Carolyn’s food or anything on the expense account because I’m not really an employee? It’s like some twisted charity - I work for no salary and get meals. Not like some do. Dinner,” Martin spat, “is for crew and professional pilots. And I am not counted among that glorious number, Douglas. Because I’m not a professional. I’m scarcely a pilot. And we both know that I’m not your captain, am I? Not when it matters. So, no, I’m not coming down.”

“Martin.” Douglas looked blank. “Martin, you -”

“Don’t _bother_ ,” Martin said. The words hurt his throat. “Happily, as I now understand things, I have the means to stop. I don’t have to be your captain. I don’t have to pretend to have a job flying. And I don’t have to put up with you.” The very idea of quitting made Martin’s stomach turn over, but the damage was done. “I’ll, I'll start looking for a new job immediately. Or maybe I’ll just give up flying.”

A strange look passed over Douglas’ face. The corners of his mouth curved up. Triumph, probably. Douglas would enjoy being a captain again, wouldn't he? Martin swallowed around a lump and began to close the door, only to have Douglas throw out a hand to keep it ajar. “Wait a minute. Martin, do you mean that?”

Martin met Douglas’ eyes. “I’ve had enough of your company for one day, Douglas. Go - go away.” His voice was quiet, shaking a little. He repeated himself with more conviction. “Go _away._ ”

Douglas’ hand slipped from the door. “Fine, I’ll go.” Martin gulped a pained breath and Douglas blinked at the noise. “Martin?”

Martin closed the door on whatever Douglas was going to say. He shot the bolt and rested his head against the door, waiting until he heard slow footsteps moving away.

Martin returned to the bed and lay down, hollowed from his outburst. For several minutes he just lay still, pulling deep breaths into a chest gone tight. Oh, gods, this day had been horrible. He longed to hear his husband’s voice just now, with his bad jokes and sweet endearments. He pulled out his phone and dialled. In a fit of lassitude, he put it on speakerphone and rested it on his chest, propping his head on the pillow and letting his arms flop on the mattress.

“Martin.”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“I wish you understood.”

Martin stared at the wall. A corner of the wallpaper was beginning to peel up, he noted. “Understood what?”

“What you mean to me.”

 _Oh_. Martin’s lip quivered. “This - this is out of the blue.”

“Perhaps now is when you need to hear it.” The wallpaper pattern wavered in Martin’s view and he blinked until it cleared. “You don’t have to believe me now. Perhaps if I told you more often, you’d understand.”

Martin didn’t know how to respond. “Thank you.” The words were almost inaudible.

“So… your day was not fine. Lay down your burden, I’m listening.”

“Tea and sympathy?” Martin’s quip was half-hearted and he sighed.

“The latter, assuredly. The former you’ll have to arrange - I can’t work that miracle for you.” His husband’s voice was warm and Martin’s heart lightened a little. “What is that noise, by the way? A kind of rustling.”

“Huh? Oh. You’re on speakerphone. Lying on my chest.”

“Oh, I’m lying on you? That’s a promising position. If only I were.”

Martin almost smiled. “Yeah.” He sighed. “So. Today, we flew some tourists on a tour to see polar bears, and there was this tour representative who said I was very professional…”

The tale dragged out of him in fits and starts, his hands knotting in the bed covers as he re-lived it. His husband listened, for the most part, only asking a few questions to probe out Martin’s reactions to the day’s events.

“You know, all I’ve ever wanted since I was a kid is to be a pilot and fly planes,” Martin said. “My dad said it was a waste of time and money. Some of my instructors told me I wasn’t cut out for it. But I wanted it. I got my license after seven tries.” Martin toyed with the phone. His chest was tight. “The thing is, I never doubted. I stuck to it. But today. Today, for the first time, I… maybe they were right. Even you said I was in the wrong profession.”

“Martin.”

“No one takes me seriously. I’m ridiculous. I’m a joke.”

“Martin, never that.”

“You weren’t there.” Martin pressed the heel of his hand to his aching forehead. “You don’t know. Oh, _gods_.”

“Don’t,” his husband said, voice strained.

“Don’t what? Don’t quit? Don’t stop flying? Don’t start to cry?”

“Don’t _hurt_ so.”

“Why do you care? If you’d seen what an idiot -”

“Because for some reason or other, Martin, I find that when you’re cut,” his husband said, voice cutting through Martin’s rising one, “I bleed. So, don’t. Any of it.”

“I thought you wanted me to stay home and safe.” Martin’s throat ached. “And I - I… I don’t know if I can do this any more. It’s like, like today all that joy I had when I was in the air… It was like something died. And I told Douglas I was leaving and he smiled. I -”

“Sweet, not like this. I won’t deny I wish you were with me all nights, but Martin! Flying… “ His husband’s voice grew quiet. “Flying means so much to you, and I won’t have you diminished or… or dulled, no matter the cost. Sweet, don’t stop spreading your wings. I’m sorry, I haven’t been very understanding about this. I was hoping… well, never mind. But now I see that without flying, you’re not… you.”

“I don’t want to face them tomorrow.

“You do it the way the way you faced your CPLs. And I don’t pretend to understand how you managed to keep going in the face of all opposition, but Martin... Martin, you are the most persistent mortal I’ve ever met. You pick yourself up time and again. It’s one of the things I admire most in you.”

“My dad said it was a pipe-dream, me being a pilot,” Martin said, voice thick. “That I was a fool.”

“Stubborn, not a fool. You persevered, though, and you made it happen. You did that. Don't let your spark be extinguished by this. And... and I’d go to Hades and back before I let you give up this thing you’ve wanted… for how long?”

“Since I was a kid.” Martin scrubbed his hot eyes. He debated telling the story but swallowed the impulse. “I decided when I was six I would be a pilot. Crazy, isn’t it.”

“No,” his husband said. “That dream has been the fire within you your entire life, Martin. Tell me instead that you won’t give up.”

Martin controlled his breathing, eyes closed. “I don’t know.”

His husband’s voice grew intense, the speaker phone buzzing with odd harmonics. “This is just a temporary setback. And if Douglas Richardson gives you any more grief, I’ll smite the old blighter. How dare he talk to my consort that way!”

Martin hiccuped a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. “Don’t.”

“Well, I would. For you. Say the word.”

“You can’t just smite anyone who upsets me. Half of England would be smitten. Smote. Struck down.”

“Smitten for you, dear heart. Now listen. You can handle this, you can handle anything. But you need your rest, and I am longing for you to fly back to me. Now go on. Swear you won’t stop.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” His husband’s tone was gentle but firm. “Swear on the gods you hold dearest.”

Martin’s chest felt bruised. “Thank you… for, well. I don’t know what to say. For understanding.”

“Martin.”

“Yes, okay. By Iris and Eros, I swear I - I won’t give up. I’ll keep flying.”

“Because you love it.” There was an odd finality to the words, but his husband went on in a brisker tone. “Now, why don’t you make yourself comfortable and relax. I’ll tell you a story to send you off to sleep. How does that sound, love?”

It sounded lovely. He was exhausted. Martin shuffled into his pyjamas and laid the phone on the pillow by his head. In a low voice his husband began a tale of Hephaestion and Alexander the Great. Martin drifted to sleep with the rich voice wandering through descriptions of the two as boys riding together through a sun-drenched landscape that blurred into Martin’s dreams.

 

 

The bar was dim and cool and just what Eros wanted. His heart was cold and heavy following Martin’s call. His eye fell upon a hopeful woman seated with a rough-looking young man. A date, and not a good one, by the look of boredom on the man’s face. Eros considered the pair, shrugged and moved to their table. She looked up, startled.

“He’s all wrong for you,” Eros told her. “Bad boys are bad news. But I’ll give you a chance.” The woman blinked at him, confused. Eros withdrew a pen from his pocket, concentrated and jammed it into the tough’s hand. He squalled and his date jumped to his defense.

“What are you doing, you crazy old coot? Honey, are you all right?” She clutched at the tough’s injured paw. He blinked at her.

“I am now, sugar,” he said, a soppy smile spreading over his face.

“You’re welcome,” Eros said and took a seat at the bar.

“What can I get you?” said the bartender.

“I don’t know. Do you have anything that can change fate? A drink that’ll let me go back in time and obliterate my own stupidity?”

“Drink enough and it’ll work. For a night, at least.” The bartender’s smile was wry. “But then you’ll wake wishing you’d never tried.”

“Wise. Set me up with something I can toy with instead, then,” Eros said. He lifted a brow at the ginger ale that was set in front of him. “What’s this?”

“Free refills for as long as you need to brood, with no hangover.” The bartender looked over Eros’ shoulder. “And for you?”

A hand clapped on Eros’ shoulder. He stiffened as a familiar voice spoke. “Whiskey, neat. I’ll take care of my cousin’s tab.”

“Oh, will you?” Eros glared as Pothos made himself comfortable. “I should bloody well hope so, considering how you stuck me with the bill last time.”

“Nice work match-making back there,” Pothos said. “But that’s not what you brought you out tonight, is it?”

“What are you doing here? Not spying, are you? I’m following the guidelines of our damned wager!”

“The spirit of the rules, yes. Don’t worry, I’m not calling for your forfeit. Not yet.” Pothos sipped his drink. “But why do I always run into you when you’re moody and depressed? Your little mortal hasn’t confessed his eternal love yet? Tsk. You bragged it would take you no time at all.”

“He doesn’t love me.” The statement burned Eros’ throat and he gulped at his ginger ale. “He may never love me, as long as he’s got his aeroplanes.”

Pothos was eyeing him. “You think that, do you? Not like you to give up.”

Eros rounded on him. “What can I do? Martin loves flying more than anything, and I can’t stand to see him made unhappy! I can’t take that away from him - it'd be as bad as killing him!"

Pothos' smile at Eros' ire grew into an open-mouthed grin of pure delight. Eros' hands curled into fists. "Oh, coz," Pothos said. " _Coz."_

"Oh, fuck you!" Eros snarled. "You’ve made it so I’ll never be content without him. You and your fucking _longing!_ That is the worst trick you have ever played, cousin, and I’m _this_ close to throttling you for it!”

“You’re an idiot,” Pothos said. “A blind _fool_. Whoever would have thought the god of love would be so stupid? Everyone on Olympus can see it, but you can’t?”

“See what?” Eros shouted. “Elucidate for me, cousin!”

“Guys.” The bartender was poised. “Is everything all right?”

Pothos raised his hands. “It’s fine. Family. You know how it is. We’ll try to keep it down.”

Pothos waited until the bartender moved off before scooting closer, the gleeful smile stretching his face. “Oh, this is too good, I am a _genius_ , I really am. You can’t guess?”

Eros shook his head, glowering.

“So. You think the scratch from my bolt of longing is to blame for your - how to put it - emotional predicament?” Pothos slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew one of his crossbow bolts. “One of these?”

“You bloody know that’s…” Eros trailed off as his cousin gestured with both hands in a familiar magician’s flourish. A flat length of dull steel gleamed in Pothos’ hand where the bolt had been.

“Recognise this?”

Eros stared. “Wait. Is that…?”

“A butter knife? Yes.” Pothos tossed the blade up and caught it, twirling it between his fingers. “The butter knife you were using on the day we made the wager? Correct again! Are you getting the picture now? I’ve been dragging it with me everywhere for months, waiting for this moment!”

Eros gripped the bar edge of the bar, ignoring how the wood groaned under his grip. “You. You didn’t infect me with a scratch from your bolt. You switched it for the knife.”

“Sleight of hand is such a good skill, don't you think?” Pothos smirked.

“You bastard. You utter bastard. Then what I’ve been feeling for Martin all this time…”

“Was never my doing.” Pothos laughed, bright and high. “Best trick ever!” He caught Eros by the back of the head and pressed their foreheads together. Eros focussed on the green eyes that were both mischievous and pitying. “Do you understand now?"

Eros’ stomach dropped away. “I… I love him.”

“At first sight. You love him. Sorry, but I couldn’t help messing with you. It was never longing.” Pothos released him. “You can stop casting blame on me now, cousin. Now you know all. Happy?”

Eros rubbed away a blur in his eyes. His heart was lead-heavy. _I love Martin_. “How can you even ask that?”

There was no reply. Eros looked around, but Pothos had gone. “You ungodly little shit,” he muttered. “At least you picked up the tab this time.” Eros waved the notes his cousin had left behind at the bartender. “Another for me. No ice, I’ll be watering it down with manly tears.”

“I hear you,” said the bartender in sympathy and gave him extra paper napkins with his drink. “Family, eh?”

 

 

 

[27th of Mounichion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, spring]

Martin woke before his alarm went off with an improbable scheme in his head and nervous tension singing a low note in his belly.

The problem was - respect. He _needed_ it if he was to go on at MJN. Well, if no one appreciated a tidy, timely captain who did his best and more than pulled his weight, how would they like the opposite? If you can't beat them, you may as well join them. See how Carolyn and Douglas liked that!

If he pulled it off… well, he’d either get the recognition he wanted for his old ways that he wanted from Douglas and Carolyn, or… it would end horribly. Ought he tell his husband? Martin considered. No, not right away. If things went wrong, he’d never let on about his hare-brained idea. His spouse had confidence in him and seemed to think Martin was clever. He’d hate to disappoint him. Managing his affairs on his own would surely impress him. Martin wondered at himself for hoping for his husband’s approbation. _It’ll please him if I can pull this off_ , he decided. _And make him laugh. I’m supposed to please him, right?_

More sleep was impossible - he plugged his phone in to charge and got out a battered copy of _Restaurant at the End of the Universe_ to read. Step one - do nothing.

Martin waited, turning pages without taking them in. His stomach rumbled. After about an hour he got up to rifle his flight bag for one of the granola bars he kept for snacks. He prowled. In a drawer of the bureau, there was a complimentary pad, pen and several envelopes for tips. A thought came to him and he picked them up. He detached the epaulettes from his shirt and held them in his hand, weighing them. The sides of his mouth curled up in a grim smile.

There was a knock. He put the epaulettes aside and answered the door, yawning theatrically. Arthur was there, bag in hand and ready to go. “Skip! We missed you at breakfast, I thought maybe you’d already eaten and Mum sent me collect you. Gosh, are those clouds and little aeroplanes on your pyjama bottoms? I have a set just like those. I bet your husband gave those to you!”

“Uh, yes. He did.” Martin stumbled mentally over the thought that Arthur had the same pair.

“I love mine! Your husband has good taste, doesn’t he?” Arthur beamed. “Ready to go, Skip?”

“Can you give me a little time? I just got up.”

“Wow, you never sleep in. Can you hurry? It’s just that Douglas says there a storm warning.”

“What, the actual weather or Carolyn?”

Arthur shuffled. “Both, I think.”

“Okay, I’ll be right down. Do you think you could get me a cup of coffee? Thanks.”

Carolyn was indeed gusting hard when Martin appeared downstairs. “Martin, we have a schedule to keep! I don’t keep pilots to be decorative aspects of MJN, but to work in a timely manner!”

“Why not?” Martin accepted the cup of coffee and a paper napkin wrapped around two doughnuts from Arthur. “I, um. I think I’m pretty decorative.” In the grand business scheme of things, he was only an unpaid adjunct to MJN’s continuation as a viable business, after all. He sipped the bitter brew with a wince.

Douglas chuckled. “Your hat alone adds flare to our drab company.” Martin glared.

“You are a bit like an ornament, Skip!” Arthur said with his usual loyalty. “All pale and small and cute like… like one of those china figurines. Shepherdesses. Shepherders?”

“A slightly rough Beau Peep Brummel,” Douglas commented. “Didn’t my captain have time to shave?”

Carolyn looked displeased. Martin’s ears heated but he bumped Arthur with his elbow. “Thanks, Arthur. You’re ornamental, too.”

“Brilliant! What kind?”

“Yes, what kind?” Douglas wanted to know. Carolyn began chivvying them to the door, impatient with the conversation.

“Suncatcher,” Martin said, then paused. It was true. Arthur wasn’t brilliant, but he spread light and fantastic colours around by his very nature. “You light up MJN.”

“Oh! Sparkly! Thanks, Skip, that’s a really sweet thing to say!” Arthur’s grin was pure sunshine. He nudged Martin back. Martin couldn’t help smiling.

Douglas frowned. “Flirting, Martin? With Arthur? Easy target, isn’t it? And dangerous, considering your marital situation.”

“It’s not dangerous if it’s me!” Arthur protested.

Martin tightened his grip on his cup. “Don’t be jealous, Douglas, just because Arthur thinks I’m more decorative than you.”

“Well, it _is_ Arthur,” Douglas said. Martin’s lips tightened.

In the taxi, Martin found himself edging away from Douglas until he wound up pressed against Arthur. Arthur said nothing but only made comments about the rain and brilliant polar bears. The babble calmed Martin. He freed his hands of coffee and pastries and swallowed a burst of nerves. _Here we go_. He pulled out the tip envelope and passed it to Douglas.

“Here, b- before I forget.” Martin cursed his stammer.

Douglas took it. “A tip? You shouldn’t have, Martin. For what services rendered did I deserve…” He lifted the flap and stiffened. “These are yours.”

“N- no. No, I don’t think so. They belong to you.” Martin wasn’t able to conceal a trace of bitterness when he added, “They always did.”

“No, I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Me, make a mistake, there’s a good one!” Martin sniped.

Douglas tried to give the envelope back. Martin hastily picked up his coffee. “Arthur, do you want one of my doughnuts?” Douglas scowled at the ploy and flicked the envelope into Martin’s lap. “Douglas!”

“What is going on?” Carolyn said. “Oh, never mind, I don’t care. Whatever squabble or bet you’ve got on, leave it and pay attention. Today’s a full compliment of passengers. Arthur, you’ll…”

Martin stared straight ahead, ignoring Douglas’ eyes on his face.

 

 

It pained Martin to do what he did next. When they arrived, he scrambled out of the taxi after Arthur, leaving the envelope with the epaulettes in it on the seat. Douglas snatched the envelope up, face like a thundercloud. “Martin. You forgot this.”

Martin fiddled with his flight bag, not quite able to hold Douglas’ gaze. “They’re not mine. I told you.”

Douglas scowled. “Fine, be that way. I’ll do the walk-around.” He stalked off. Martin blew out a shaky breath and climbed into G-ERTI.

Martin didn’t see Douglas enter the flight deck. He was sprawled in the first officer’s seat, hat over his face, pretending to take a nap. But he heard him.

“Walk-around’s complete, nothing has fallen off, and - what are you doing?”

The hat was lifted away and Martin blinked up at Douglas’ displeased expression. He shrugged, bringing Douglas’ attention to the bare state of his shoulders. His stomach churned. Ye gods, it was killing him to do this. Still, it was worthwhile for the look on Douglas’ face.

“Haven’t you started the pre-flight checklist?”

Martin rolled his eyes up in thought. “Oh, right. Er.  No.”

“No?” Douglas was incredulous.

“You do it.”

“Why? I did the walk-around.”

“Um. You’re the one who strained G-ERTI by dive-bombing polar bears. S- so, you do the list.”

“I shall do no such thing!”

Martin straightened up, his voice heating. “Well, I’m not doing them. So, if you’re comfortable flying in an unchecked plane after the reckless and, and stupid stunts you pulled, go right ahead!"

Douglas considered him. A small smile curved his mouth. Martin stiffened. _Here it comes. Brace yourself.  
_

“Oh, but _captain_ ,” Douglas purred.

“Martin!”

Douglas blinked at the shout. “Pardon?”

“Call me Martin. D- don’t be so formal. I d-don’t need it.” Martin bit his tongue and focussed on Douglas, trying not to sweat. “Or Pilot, or Mister Crieff. It - it doesn’t matter.”

Douglas visibly changed mental gears. “Martin. The thing is, do you feel comfortable, as a pilot, flying in an unchecked plane? Regulations aside.”

Martin wasn’t comfortable with the thought. At all. And Douglas knew it, smile growing wider as Martin squirmed. Douglas pushed again. “It isn’t very professional, after all.”

Professional.

Martin leapt from his seat as if jabbed and shouldered past Douglas. “Do what you want. You will, anyway.” He fled to the toilet and locked himself in, only coming out when a concerned Arthur asked if he was all right. When he returned to the flight deck, the check list was finished. Douglas was sitting in his own seat.

Martin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning and slid into his seat. “How’s the weather?”

 

 

“Sweet, what are you up to these days? You haven’t mentioned how the work situation is going at all.” Eros was concerned. It wasn’t like Martin to hold anything back. He'd worked so hard to gain Martin’s trust and be his comfort and solace, his friend and lover.

Martin’s hand paused in the midst of toying with Eros’ hair. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. You’ve been very quiet about the subject,” Eros pursued. “Is there some secret?”

Martin’s fingers resumed combing. “It’s been… all right. Better than before. I’m working on something, yes.”

“Won’t you tell me? Is this to do with why you’ve decided to grow a beard? Not that I’m complaining about that. It’s very decorative and the whisker burn adds a certain piquancy to our activities.”

Martin laughed and bent to rub his cheek against Eros’. “I can’t tell you, not yet. I promise you’ll know when it’s over. I think you’ll like it.”

Eros was dubious but willing. “Have it your way, then, darling. I’m sure you know what you are doing.”

“I hope so, too.”

 

 

Their next flight to Sardinia (‘ _Okay, so it sounds like sardines and gardenia, but I’m pretty sure there’s no such flower, Arthur, thank the gods_.’) found Martin late to work and entirely scruffy. His over-long curls were barely restrained by his hat, his tie was missing and his shirt was unbuttoned to his clavicle. Shaving had continued to go by the wayside, which charmed his husband no end. Martin personally thought he looked like a mad artist.

Carolyn had eyed him but said nothing. Now Martin stood shoulder to shoulder with Douglas, hands thrust into pockets as Lord Leverhulme and his family approached. The Lord stepped away and Douglas moved to shake his hand. “A pleasure to have you with us again, Laird. Cave-diving for yourself and yachting for your family? I’m sure you’ll have a splendid time.”

Lord Leverhulme, a stocky man with a shock of white hair and an astonishing grip for someone of his age, nodded and said something. Martin did his best but even when the laird wasn't under the influence of his favourite whiskey, he couldn’t penetrate the his accent. He stepped forward. “Me too. I mean, I’m sure you’ll have a nice trip.” His smile twisted into a grimace as his hand was cordially crushed.

The laird looked Martin up and down and said something in an approving tone. Douglas choked and the laird turned away with speed. “What?” Martin said but before Douglas could reply, the laird was back, dragging a tall young man with a wheat-blond hair. Arthur trailed behind, curious. The laird gestured to Martin and spoke. “What?” Martin said again, bewildered.

Douglas was suspiciously poker-faced. Arthur’s eyes were wide. The young man replied, cheeks scarlet. “Da wants to know if… oh, Da! Odin’s teeth, why do you have to do this to me whenever you find an attractive man? If you’d like to have a cup of coffee with me sometime.”

“Coffee?” Martin yelped at the same time Douglas croaked, “Attractive?”

The laird nodded, white brow lifting. Why not, young man? Isn’t my boy a looker? his expression seemed to say. Ian was - just the sort of Apollonian type that had always been well out of Martin’s usual league.

“Er.” Martin was at a loss. Douglas was no help. Martin could see he was quivering with laughter. Arthur just looked at the laird with hurt puppy eyes. “Hello? My name’s Martin Crieff.”

“Ian,” the man said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, captain.” He grinned an endearing lopsided smile, acknowledging the awkwardness.

“Yes, I am the captain,” Martin said, surprised. “How did you -” He cut himself off.

“Oh, well, it’s obvious,” Ian said. “I mean, just look at you, you look…” He likewise stopped himself speaking further.

The laird rumbled something and Douglas straightened, still smiling. “Yes, the captain does have a certain _je ne sais quoi_ today. Quite… commanding.”

Martin jumped in before matters went any further. “Um. Ian, I would love to… no, no, I mean, I would normally love to but, but I can’t!”

“That’s right, he can’t!” Arthur said, angling himself to block Ian's view of Martin. “So you’d better not -”

“What the captain means,” Douglas interjected, “is that he’s married. To an immortal, truth be told.”

“Douglas, Arthur!” Martin hissed. He edged around Arthur to give a strained smile to the disappointed Ian. “Yes. It’s, well, I don’t advertise it. Being married to a god! Not the being married part, I don’t want to lead anyone on.” He trailed off, giving up on explaining. “Sorry. Really.” Another time, and he would have tripped over himself to have coffee with Ian. Martin cut off that dangerous line of thought.

“Ah, well, I might have guessed,” Ian sighed. “Pity. Da was right, you’re just my type. Got a good eye, my da.” His eyes drifted from Martin's flaming curls to his stubble and down to the vee of chest revealed by his open shirt. Ian winked. Martin’s face flamed to the roots of his hair. Mouth open, he turned to see Arthur frowning at him and the laird with his brows raised in speculation. Another spate of words flew. Martin looked at Douglas.

“A god, indeed. Yes, my captain is indeed something special,” Douglas supplied. “Too bad for young Ian.”

 

 

“How was your flight to Sardinia, darling?” Eros asked. “I’m glad to have you home.” He chuckled. “Sardinia. In my time, it was Sardo. Why mortals had to change it to something that sounds like a fishy flower, I’ll never know.”

“Huh. Weird you should say that, Arthur thought something similar.” Martin shook off the distraction. “It was… interesting.”

Eros hummed in enquiry as he watched red climb Martin’s neck. "Interesting?"

“Um. It’s ridiculous. Our client tried to set me up with his son.”

“Was he cute?” Eros asked, tone arch. Martin was so adorable, he thought, the way his nose scrunched up when he wasn’t sure to tell the truth or not.

“Yes, but I wasn’t interested!” Martin said. “I couldn’t, I mean, I would never! Not when I’m in… in… in a relationship, much less married!”

Eros exhaled disappointment quietly. It had almost sounded as Martin were going to say he loved him. _Wait for it, it'll come_ , he scolded himself. “Thank you, darling. I’m glad there's no cause for jealousy.”

“Yes.” Martin’s brow furrowed. “Speaking of that, it was almost as if Arthur was… no, I must have been imagining it.”

“Sweet, please don’t make me wish to smite your coworker!” Eros joked. “He spends enough time with you as it is!”

Martin reached out and hugged him close, choking back a giggle. “You, you don’t have to worry about that. Trust me.”

“How goes your secret scheme? Can you tell me yet?”

Martin sighed in his ear. “It goes. And not yet. Sorry.”

 

 

Arthur was worried. This week had been brilliant! And a bit not brilliant. Arthur loved how Skip was taking time during flights to hang out with him in the galley, chatting and trading turns playing Animal Crossing until Mum shouted them back to work. And it was nice that Skip looked, well, better. Kind of furry and cute. Not so sharp and stiff around the edges like other pilots did in their uniforms. When Arthur had asked whether Martin had slept in his shirt, Martin had said of course he had. And Douglas’ face had gone all funny, like he couldn’t think what words to use.

But Douglas had left the office and Martin had sort of gone all saggy. Arthur hated when people were unhappy, and hadn’t Martin said he was a sparkly ornament? Maybe he could cheer him up, if only he knew what was wrong. Time to use the special Ipswich training.

He found Martin near G-ERTI. “Hi, Skip! You’re early today! Not that you’re usually not early. Most times you are. But it’s the first time this week! I saw your car. Tea?”

“Yes, well spotted, Arthur.” Martin didn’t sound very welcoming. He accepted the mug Arthur held out but didn’t drink.

Hm. Arthur racked his brain. “You looking forward to today’s flight?”

“We’re on stand-by. Mr Goddard’s kept us waiting two days. Who knows when we’ll fly again?”

“I love flying with you and Douglas. It’s great, isn’t it?” Arthur said. “Still, hanging out in the Portakabin is brilliant too. There’s all the catering stuff to sort, and the papers you and Douglas do, and the word games.” Though there hadn’t been any word games this week. “Are you bored of word games, Skip? ‘Cause Douglas keeps coming up with them, and only me and Mum have played this week. You just keep pretending to sleep or read a novel. But you haven't gotten very far into it. Not that it matters - I'm a slow reader too.”

“No, word games are fine,” Martin sighed. “It’s just… It’s complicated, Arthur.”

“Not that you’re not always brilliant, Skip, but you don't seem as brilliant as you usually do,” Arthur said. “Maybe I can help?” _‘Say something positive, and leave an opening for people to express themselves,’_ the trainer at Ipswich had said. “I love helping, you know.”

“I don’t think so, Arthur.” Martin’s shoulders were all hunched. _‘Repressing.’_ Or was it depressing?

“Oh, come on, Skip!” Arthur jigged from side to side. “Oh! I know what’ll cheer you up. Wait right here!” He darted off and jogged back with the keys to G-ERTI’s cargo hold. “You want to see something?” He unlocked the hold and gestured. “Look.”

Martin opened the box and stared. “Beer? This is Douglas’, isn’t it. Oh, gods. Douglas is smuggling alcohol? Does he want MJN investigated?” His voice rose.

Oops. Arthur hadn’t meant to upset Skip. “It’s not beer! Well, not real beer.” He pulled a can free. “Look!”

Martin took the can. “Ginger beer? Smuggling ginger bloody beer,” he muttered. “For Hades’ sake, Douglas. You just - you just don’t know _when to stop._ ” He looked Arthur full in the eye. “Arthur…”

“Yes, Skip?” Arthur straightened up. The way Martin was looking at him made him a bit shivery, like Martin was thinking really hard about Arthur. Mum did that too. He did his best to _‘look open for any confidences.’_  Martin cleared his throat.

“Arthur, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course, Skip!”

“You remember the polar bear trip? Qikiqtarjuaq?” As if Arthur would ever forget that! He nodded vigorously and Martin went on. “Well, during the flight, both your mum and Douglas - well, they made me… made me unhappy.”

“Oh.” Arthur considered this. “What did they do?”

“I’m not blaming your mum, it’s her plane. Though I think the game of Travelling Lemon - well, never mind. But Douglas…” Martin’s mouth was all pinchy, as if he were remembering something really bad. Like it hurt. Arthur didn't like that look. “I won’t go into details, but Douglas made me feel... feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about that, Skip,” Arthur consoled. “I feel like that a lot of the time.”

“I can deal with that, Arthur!” Martin said. “But - but he said - well, implied… Anyway. That I wasn’t a real pilot. Not a p- professional one. And ever since, I just haven’t wanted to go flying any more.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed with distress. Martin went on, eyes down, “I’m thinking of quitting.”

“Oh, Skip! You can’t! Don’t go - how can I make you stay?” Arthur’s eyes stung. Skip couldn’t leave! He was the best skipper Arthur had known, all nice and clever and funny. “I’ll - I’ll bring you coffee first! I’ll hoover your car! I’ll pray! Give you first crack at the cheese tray always, even before Mum nicks the Camembert!”

“There’s Camembert?” Martin yelped.

“Um, yes, but Mum said I didn’t need to tell you, since she steals it before I bring it to you guys. Uh.” Arthur flapped his hands. “But Skip, please don’t go! You love flying! And I love having you! That was… that was _not brilliant_ of Douglas to be so mean! Why would he do that?” Arthur sagged. “It makes me feel like when Mum and Dad were arguing and then Dad left. And MJN feels like family with you here. Please, Skip.”

Martin looked pained. “I - I don’t know, Arthur. I, uh, haven’t made up my mind yet. But I wanted you to know why I’ve been, well. You know. Thanks for listening. It’s a weight off my mind.”

“I’m glad I helped. A little,” Arthur mumbled. “Wish I could - Oh! I know!” The idea was daring, and a little dangerous. Mum would kill him if she found out. But Arthur would dare anything to make Martin happy enough to keep flying and stay. “Fizzball!”

“What?” Martin had jumped at his exclamation.

“That’ll cheer you up! Me and my mates used to play. Well, until I needed stitches that one time.” Martin was looking a bit nervous, so Arthur hastened to explain. “It’s from a brilliant comic called Sam and Max. You use a big stick and someone bowls a can and you bash it!”

“Can of what? That sounds dangerous,” Martin said.

“Oh, you’re supposed to use beer. In the comic you got points for the type of explosion you get when you hit the can, but my friends and I used to make up different rules. You have to try it, Skip. Nothing makes you happy like Fizzball! I’m terrible at sports but even I love Fizzball!”

“Beer?” Martin was starting to look interested.

“Anything fizzy will work, but cheap and yucky beer is best.”

Martin looked at the can in his hand. “Fizzy,” he mused. Arthur almost wriggled with excitement. “Arthur Shappey?”

“Yes?”

Martin tossed the can to him and grinned. “Batter up.”

Arthur felt like cheering! So he did.

 


	10. High Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martins wins.

Douglas drummed his fingers on the table. He was on time as he had been this entire week, forced to cover for Martin’s tardiness. Where was the young idiot? Ever since that trip to Qikiqtarjuaq, Martin had been painfully and obviously not himself. Gone was the nervous tension, the prissy insistence on procedure and paperwork. While Douglas appreciated Martin’s new relaxed style, there was a limit to his tolerance. For example: work.  Douglas much preferred letting Martin handle the tedium of the paperwork the lad seemed to so love. Or did love, until recently.

The new Martin, Douglas decided, was unnerving. His silence was wearing on Douglas. The way he let Douglas handle all the flying was downright unnatural. Martin _loved_ flying. And an un-epauletted Martin was… lacking something. Douglas had to admit that though Martin ironically appeared more the captain now than he ever had, he missed the fussy, uptight Martin.

Douglas stroked the bulge of that god-cursed envelope in his breast pocket. He’d thought Martin had been joking when he’d returned his epaulettes, but Martin’s bitter refusal to take them back made Douglas uneasy. The daft boy hadn’t meant what he’d said about leaving MJN, had he? The attempts at scruffiness, the laissez-faire attitude, it was so antithetical to Martin’s true nature that it was painful to watch. And there was the way he didn’t even argue about operating or landing G-ERTI! Was he trying to be fired? Douglas had to entertain the possibility.

Douglas didn’t want Martin to quit, not really. But he was curious enough to let Martin run with whatever scheme he'd concocted.

The phone rang and he snapped up the receiver. “MJN, how can I be of service?”

“Douglas.” It was Carolyn. “Goddard’s called at long last and I’m picking him up. Have Martin file the flight plans.”

“I would,” Douglas said, “if Sir were here to do so.”

“What, late again? I am going to have a serious word with that boy! One lazy pilot is all this airline can support!”

“Not to worry, I’ll get the plans filed.” Douglas ignored the slur on his work ethic.

“Goddard is expecting two pilots. Find that idiot and drag him in by the ear if needed. And if he looks half as scrofulous as he has done the past week, stuff him in the flight deck locker until Goddard is aboard and seated.”

“I rather like Martin’s new look. Like a dashing young air pirate.”

“Yo ho and har har. Snap to it, underling. And tell Arthur to get the catering ready.”

“Ah.” Douglas paused. Should he inform her Arthur was also AWOL? Best not. “You speak and I obey.”

“Good.” The line disconnected. Douglas hummed. Martin and Arthur, Arthur and Martin. Both absent. A normally neutral combination that today was likely to prove dangerous. Calls to their mobiles went unanswered. Douglas left voice mails with both and left to search Fitton airfield.

 

 

G-ERTI was dark and still. Tannoy announcements in the small terminal building brought forth no bounding Arthurs or frantic Martins. The mechanic’s shed was empty. But behind he could hear shouting.

“That doesn’t count, that one didn’t open all the way!”

“Well, shake it up and use it again. There’s only five more left and Dirk hasn’t had a go!”

“Oh, Hades, it’s fizzing over me! Quick, quick, here it comes!”

There was a cracking sound and a cheer. “Nice one, Phil!”

“How many points was that?”

“Didn’t make it over the line. That means it’s a double. Two points to the Reds!”

“Skip, you’re up!”

_Arthur. What on earth -?_

He rounded the shed to an astonishing scene. A motley crowd made up of fire crew, mechanics and ground crew were standing around, shouting. Captain Martin Crieff scuffled nervously inside a half-hazard circle of rope laid on the ground. Martin gripped a piece of wood too thin to be called a bat and squinted. “Go easy, George,” Martin said.

Dirk snorted. “Hah! I saw the way you bashed the first one. Proper gusher, that one.”

“Didn’t make it out of the batting circle, so it doesn’t count,” Phil called.

“Shut it! He’s on your team, isn’t he? George, you bowl that bastard hard, y’hear? I want my turn.”

George grinned at Martin who quailed but firmed his grip on the wood. He nodded and George pitched a can at him. _A can?_ Martin flailed at it but the can went tumbling past to be retrieved and passed back to George.

“Strike!”

“What in Hades is going on?”

Everyone stopped at Douglas’ raised voice. Everyone, that is, except Martin, who swung about so fast the stick spun out of his hands. Douglas ducked, hearing the whiz as the weapon flew where his head had been a moment before. Martin stood with his mouth open.

“Oh, hi, Douglas!” Arthur sounded nervous. “We’re just having a pick-up game of Fizzball. Reds versus Groundies. It’s, you know, like rounders, but more… more… “

“Fizzy?” Douglas supplied.

“How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” Douglas drawled. There was a pile of dented and burst cans. Some of the men sported wet patches on their clothing. Douglas sniffed. What was that smell? George shook the can in his hand and Douglas’ eyes were drawn to the motion. “Hang on. Is that… That's my ginger beer! ”

Martin accepted the stick from a groundsman and raised his chin. “And - and if it is?”

“It’s _my_ beer!” Douglas couldn’t restrain his outrage.

“Which you were going to smuggle on G-ERTI!”

“It’s not even alcohol!” Douglas said in exasperation.

“Did you plan on telling Carolyn you were ‘exporting’ it?” Martin’s face was growing red.

“Well, no, but -”

“B - b- but nothing! As captain, I felt it was only right to dispose of - of _contraband goods_!”

Dirk rumbled, “There’s a point. Dave, go see if security still has that box of American beer.”

Arthur beamed. “Oh, perfect! Cheap _and_ yucky! This is a real Fizzball game now!”

“I thought you weren’t a captain any more,” Douglas said to Martin. Damn it, he’d had a good trade set for that Old Jamaica. The Extra Fiery was hard to find outside the UK.

“As you’ve so often made clear!” Martin shouted, face reddening. Douglas gaped. Martin turned his back. “George, I’m ready.”

“George, don’t you dare throw that can.” Douglas glared. How dare they use his beer? More than that, how dare they play a game with his own damned beer _and not even invite him_?

“George,” Martin growled. “Throw. That. Can.”

George looked between Martin and Douglas and shrugged, grinning. “Sorry, Dougie. Contraband and all.” He pitched.

This time Martin swung as if he had a life-long grudge against the can. The resulting cloud of foam and aluminium shrapnel had everyone cheering. “Oh, well done, Skip!” “Good one, Skipper!” “Reds! Reds! Reds!” “Sign him up, sign him up, sign him u-u-up!”

“How did I do?” Martin was drenched in ginger beer, shirt stuck to him in transparent patches. “Did I score?”

Arthur was searching the ground beyond a scratched line in the dirt. “You did it! It’s a rounder!” He held up the can’s tab. Martin whooped. He grinned as his team mates clapped him on the shoulder. Unshaven, curls sodden, a trickle of blood running from a small cut on his cheekbone and a grin splitting his face - he ought to have looked ridiculous. Douglas gulped.

“You’re bleeding,” he managed.

“Oh?” Martin touched his cheek and looked at the smear on his fingers. “Ow!”

“You _idiot._ What if it had been your eye?” Douglas snarled.

“Aw, don’t be such an old woman, Dougie,” Dirk said before Martin could reply. “No worse than Skittles. Great hit there, Skipper.”

 _Skipper? Since when had Martin become Skipper to the entire staff of Fitton airfield_? Douglas couldn’t find the words to express how topsy-turvy his world had become. Dirk thumped Martin on the back hard enough to send him staggering a few steps. “You’re all right for a such a stick-up-the-arse type.”

High praise indeed from the likes of Dirk. As Martin straightened up, face glowing, Douglas couldn’t help but agree - Martin was captain of the day. His hand strayed to the bulge of epaulettes in his breast pocket. His phone rang and Douglas pulled it out, pinning Martin to the spot with a significant look.

“Hello?”

“Douglas. We’re fifteen minutes from the airfield. Please make sure Captain Crieff and yourself are ready to greet our passenger.” Carolyn was choosing her words carefully with Goddard in the car.

“I’ve found Martin,” he said. Martin was attempting to look unconcerned but his feet were shuffling. “Delay Goddard, we’re behind schedule on the pre-flight checks.”

“Douglas.” Carolyn’s tone leaked ire. “I understand.” _And there will be a reckoning,_ it promised.

Douglas disconnected. “Well, Skipper. Fun and games are over. Goddard will arrive in twenty minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, gods, gods!” Martin burst out. _Ha. That was more like the real Martin instead of the ersatz and uncomfortably attractive ruffian of the past week_. Arthur moved closer to Martin and pressed up against his side. They both looked so much like schoolboys before the headmaster that a bark of laughter escaped Douglas. Martin’s eyes widened.

“What’s so funny? Carolyn’s going to kill us! She will sacrifice us to the gods of commerce! There’s the flight plan, and the walk-around and the catering -”

“Well, my captain,” Douglas said, cheerful now he was back in a familiar position, “Luckily for you the plans are filed. But since I wasted most of the prep time looking for you, I’ll let you handle the rest. Better run - Goddard doesn’t sound a patient man.”

Martin shot him a venomous look. “Sorry, guys. We’re out.” There was a chorus of disappointed cries. “But g- go ahead and use the rest of the _contraband._ ”

Douglas barked a laugh at this parting shot as Martin broke into run with Arthur just behind him.

“Oh, captain, my captain,” he murmurred. It was past time to clear the air between Martin and himself. He followed the fleeing figures at a comfortable stroll.

 

 

“Mr. Goddard, I’m Captain Crieff. This is First Officer Richardson, and I’d like to apologise profusely for the delay -”

“Bloody hell! What happened to you?”

“I, er…”

“You’re sopping wet! And… and is that ginger I smell? Whoof! You reek!”

“The captain was assisting in the disposal of seized contraband materials.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s what I was doing.”

“But ginger?”

“Red ginger from Korea. Costs a packet, worth a lot to the right people.”

“He’s wringing wet!”

“It's... it's heavy work.”

“ _Punishing_.”

“And the blood?”

“Oh, gods, is it still bleeding?”

“No, but Sir has a smear. I believe the captain cut himself -”

“Shaving!”

“Shaving?! He’s got stubble!”

“But none on his cheekbones, you’ll note. Notoriously tricky, shaving ones’ cheekbones, especially ones as shapely as Sir’s. Why, I myself -”

“All right. I dunno what’s going on here, but luckily for you, I’ve got to be in Madrid by nine. You two - go fly the plane. I don’t want to set eyes on either of you - especially you, Red. Got that?”

“Yes, Mr. Goddard.”

“And for the love of Zeus, _lay off the ginger!_ ”

 

 

“You have control, captain.” Douglas’ stress on the word made Martin’s shoulders tighten. Douglas lifted his hands away, forcing Martin to grab at the yoke.

“Fine! I have control,” he repeated. Did he? From where he was sitting, his passive aggressive campaign was going nowhere. Douglas didn’t seem much affected, aside from the ginger beer theft. Martin allowed himself a curl of satisfaction at the memory of the outraged expression Douglas had worn. It had felt _good_ taking out his frustration.

Still, Martin hated coming to work with his uniform rumpled and epaulettes absent. He couldn't stand watching Douglas making of hash of the paperwork, hated being late. He loathed taking a hands-off approach to flying. His palms itched to take the landings, the take-offs, _everything_. Too often he caught himself just before he opened his mouth to take control or snap regulations at Douglas. But what was the point if he wasn't getting any reaction over his behaviour? His resolve to make Douglas and Carolyn appreciate the old Martin was wearing away the longer this continued.

More than anything, he wanted things to - no, not go back to the way the way they were, but… Martin’s fingers tightened then relaxed on the throttle. Most of his days were spent with MJN, his nights with his husband. Gods knew it didn’t leave him much time to get out and make new friends, not that he was much good at that. His best relationships - friendships - were with Carolyn, Arthur and Douglas. He missed the camaraderie. But things couldn’t go on as they had. Respect. It wasn’t too much to ask. Martin might be lonely these days, but he wasn’t sure he could be friends with anyone who couldn’t respect or… or appreciate him, as a captain or otherwise.

He sighed, un-epauletted shoulders slumping.

 

Douglas watched Martin from the corner of his eye. He’d never seen Martin so miserable while flying, never _._

He cleared his throat. “Nice hit on that can. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Red crept up Martin’s neck but he didn’t turn his head. Douglas grimaced. The cold war was still on, it seemed.

“You weren’t, by chance, imagining it was someone’s head? A certain first officer’s, for example?”

Martin whipped his head around, horrified. “No. Why - why would you think I want to bash your brains out?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t presume to imagine what dark fantasies Sir may normally entertain, but it would be consistent with your behaviour this past week.”

Martin turned away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Douglas pressed. “Starting from your ludicrous declaration that you were quitting, you’ve been - and I mean this in a non-confrontational and even admiring way - not yourself.”

There was no reply. Martin’s lips pinched tight.

Douglas turned in his seat to watch him. “Have you changed your mind? I confess I've been in suspense, not knowing if I'll be getting a sudden promotion, Sir.”

His jocular tone provoked no reaction. Martin maintained his stubborn silence. Douglas looked at the slight figure with fond irritation. Never would he have suspected Martin to hold out this long. No, strike that - any man who bloody-mindedly got his CPL after six failures was capable of anything. Douglas ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Look, Martin, as impressive as your play-acting has been this week, isn’t it time you did something proactive? Whatever’s eating you, you should probably -”

His words were cut off by the flight deck door bursting open.

 

 

“Morning, chaps!” Arthur sang out. “Just bringing you drinks.” Martin took his coffee with muttered thanks. Arthur smiled at him before handing Douglas his cup. Douglas accepted it with a scowl. Arthur turned his back, blocking Douglas’ view. “Skip,” he stage whispered. “Brought you something nice.”

“Oh? What is it?” Martin blinked and switched to autopilot as Arthur handed him a small plate and whisked away the cling wrap with a flourish. “Oh!” Arthur cheered inwardly as Martin grinned. “This looks great, Arthur. Thank you, it’s very thoughtful. And kind.”

Douglas craned for a view. “There’s Camembert? Why does only Martin get Camembert? And are those -?”

Martin popped a dark triangle into his mouth. “Toblerone,” he said around his mouthful. Arthur grinned at the blissful expression on Skip’s face. It made him happy to see Skip happy.

“It’s wonderful, thank you, Arthur,” Martin said. He picked up a triangle of cheese and turned it to and fro as if considering how best to enjoy it.

“Can I interest you in a little wager?” Douglas asked.

“Nope. Too late, the cheese is already in my possession. Arthur made it for me.” Martin shifted the plate away.

Douglas leaned closer. “I could -”

“No, you couldn’t!” Martin stuffed the cheese in his mouth, licked his fingers and ran them over all the foodstuffs on the plate. Arthur giggled at Douglas’ disgruntlement.

“What are you, eight?” Douglas asked. “Arthur, call a babysitter, the plane’s been hijacked by your little brother.”

“Hey!” Arthur said.

“I can’t believe you gave _Martin_ the cream of the cheese tray before our traditional wager.”

“Double hey!” Arthur’s cheer at Skip’s delight in his gift slipped away. Douglas was being so… so _Douglassy_ and not in a good way and it wasn’t right. No wonder Skip was unhappy. Arthur was determined to fix that and girded himself to battle Douglas. “I wanted to give Skip the best. He deserves it!”

Martin gave Arthur a quick smile over his shoulder and ate the Camembert in two bites. Douglas lifted a brow. “May I ask why? All he’s done lately is show up late to work and steal my ginger beer. In what way is he deserving?”

Arthur’s face was hot. “Well - well, you aren’t!”

“That’s me told,” Douglas murmured. “Really, Arthur? Really?”

“Arthur,” Martin said in a warning tone. But the words were building up in Arthur’s chest and Douglas was being so un-brilliant that he couldn’t not say them.

“I don’t want you to have it, because you told Skip he wasn’t a proper pilot, and he is! I think he’s brilliant, and now he wants to leave and it’s all your fault!” Arthur burst out. “Why would you do that, Douglas? I thought you were friends!”

“Arthur, you weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” Martin said, but his voice lacked heat.

Arthur flushed and fidgeted. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that, Skip. About that…”

“Arthur,” Martin sighed.

“Mum wants to have a little talk with you when we get to our hotel. I’m awfully sorry, Skip. She wanted to know why we were all gingery and it kind of slipped out.”

Martin snorted. “Don’t worry about it, I’m not angry.”

Arthur worried at his lip. “But Skip. What if Mum fires you? I mean, I know you want to quit and all -”

“She won’t,” Douglas interrupted. “MJN needs its captain.”

“Ha!” Martin said under his breath. “MJN has perfect professional sky-god Douglas Richardson. It doesn’t need me.”

Arthur felt torn. He faced the first officer. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” Douglas blinked.

“Do you need Skip?” At Martin’s choking noise, Arthur changed this to, “I mean, do you want Skip to stay?”

“Yes, I do.”

Martin’s head turned at this. Arthur lifted his chin and tried his best to imitate his mum.

“Then you should say sorry. Because you were wrong. Skip’s a brilliant pilot and… and he’s _miles_ more professional than you.”

Douglas glared. Arthur decided that retreat was the best course of action.

 

The door clicked shut.

“Well. That was like being attacked by a sheep,” Douglas remarked. “Arthur seems very fond of you.”

“Douglas,” Martin chided. His face was averted.

“He’s right.”

“About what?” Martin sounded cautious.

Douglas sighed. “Oh, Martin. Listen carefully and cherish this moment, because it’s unlikely to happen again. You - are - professional. Profoundly so, beyond the even the question of salary and certainly more professional than I. In word, looks and deed you define the word.”

Martin still looked mulish. Douglas decided to expand.

“Fine. I profoundly regret that that my… my unkind and unwarranted words made you feel otherwise. If only because I have found myself hip-deep in work ever since the new Martin made his appearance.” He essayed a smile, but it dropped away as Martin looked at him.

“Don’t. Don’t make jokes, Douglas. Not about this.”

Douglas felt the unfamiliar twist of guilt. He leaned closer, debated touching Martin’s shoulder and decided against it.

“I’m saying I’m sorry. When you apologised to me on the flight, I should have accepted it. It was petty and graceless of me to refuse it and continue making a game of you. And I wouldn’t have done and said the things I did if I’d known how much it would damage our… our relationship. Our friendship. I apologise.”

The moment stretched. Martin’s gaze was appraising, weighing Douglas’ sincerity. Douglas winced internally. In the heavy judging silence, it was clear the harm Douglas inflicted had been deeper than he’d meant. Half the fun of flying with Martin was the entertainment of teasing him. Martin normally took it well, blustering and stuttering but shrugging it off. The Martin who watched him now with wary eyes told Douglas everything he needed to know about how far his captain could be pushed. Martin wanted to quit and the blame lay at Douglas’ feet.

“Thank you.”

Douglas exhaled. He felt he’d passed a great test.

Martin dropped his eyes. “And… and I’m sorry too. I know - I know how I am, how I can be so… well, you know. I shouldn’t have told Nancy -”

“No,” Douglas interrupted. Martin looked back, startled. “Don’t apologise again. Just let the matter be done.  Slate clean. We can put this behind us and carry on.”

“Until I talk to Carolyn,” Martin sighed.

“Considering the determination you showed this past week,” Douglas mused. “I think you’ll be able to handle her.”

“Thanks. I hope so,” Martin said in a dubious tone.

A comfortable silence filled the flight deck.

“Homeric rhyming journeys.”

“Uh?” Martin blinked.

“Nausicaa to Ithica,” Douglas proffered.

Martin sniffed, but Douglas was pleased to see a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know, Douglas. How about a game of Flight Manual Bingo?”

“Martin,” Douglas said, dead serious. “I’ll happily cede the cheese tray to you the next trip if I don’t have to further massage your ego by losing a round of the worst flight game ever invented.”

Martin tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know. Perhaps my fragile pride can’t handle losing yet another of your stacked word games.”

“Two flights.”

“Five!”

“Three, and I won’t even try to distract you.” Douglas couldn’t hold back his smile.

“Ha! You admit you do try to distract me from winning!”

“I admit nothing, and I laugh at the notion of you thinking you stand a chance, my captain.” As Martin opened his mouth Douglas hastily added, “Three, and that’s my final offer.”

“Deal, First Officer.”

“My pleasure, Captain Crieff,” Douglas said.

“Circe to Surrey.”

“Nice, but she prefers the original pronunciation, so Circe to Turkey.”

“How do you know how,” Martin worked his mouth around the hard consonants, “ _Circe_ likes people to say her name?”

Douglas lifted a brow and Martin groaned. “Oh, please, I’ll never believe you and her… Anyway, wouldn’t you be turned into a swine or something if you had?”

“Maybe I was,” Douglas grinned. “I was a bit of a lad, after all. Mm.”

“Maybe you still are a swine!”

“MJN, proud employer of the best of the county fair,” Douglas drawled. “Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘when pigs fly,’ doesn’t it?”

The small self-deprecation was worth it for the sound of Martin’s choked giggle. Martin recovered, mouth twitching. “Priam to Siam.”

“Homer to Hanover,” Douglas shot back.

“Uh. Achilles to… um. Piccadilly?”

“Or: Achilles to Antilles!”

“Oh, right! Paris to - Paris?”

Douglas heaved a mournful sigh. Martin glared. “Or… or… Harris, Ferris… I know! Ares to Antares!”

“Isn’t that a star system?”

“Well, he’s a god, why couldn’t he? Anyway, why would Circe go to Turkey?”

“Plenty of men to turn into pigs?” Douglas suggested. “Apollo to -”

“Sleepy Hollow!”

“Good one,” Douglas approved. He paused. “Martin.”

Martin blinked, busy thinking up the next journey. “Mm?”

“You did know that confiding any kind of secret to Arthur is as safe as hedgehog in love with a balloon? Cute and colourful, but something would eventually blow.”

Martin opened his eyes wide. “Douglas! I’ll have you know that I relied on Arthur’s discretion completely when I told him my problem.” His outraged expression was belied by the twitch in the corner of his mouth, which kept trying to curve up. Douglas held his gaze and touched his temple in a slow salute. He drew out the envelope with Martin’s epaulettes and laid it on the instrument panel in front of him.

“Well played, Captain Crieff. Well played.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin said. He darted a glance at Douglas and picked up the envelope, fingers stroking over the familiar shapes inside. “B - But thank you, First Officer. Er. Penelope to… Penelope to… to Calgary!”

“Or Canterbury.”

“Or Coventry.”

“Or Albany, if she doesn’t fancy a nice cream tea with Lady Godiva.”

“Don’t distract me!”

“Is Sir deriving some sexual innuendo from that statement? That is pretty distracting. Two lovely ladies… Licking honeyed tea from their lips, enjoying _cucumber_ sandwiches, _plucking_ loom strings, riding nude sidesaddle… or would it be _astride_ _?_ Try not to think about it, my captain.”

“ _Douglas!_ You’re cheating!”

And Douglas knew all was right in the world.

 

 

One last trial. Martin faced it across the table in the hotel’s small restaurant. Carolyn folded her hands on the table. “So. Martin. Arthur let something slip concerning why you’ve been coming to work looking like a homeless man instead of a pilot this past week, but it is Arthur after all. I would like to hear it from you. Would you mind telling me what in Hades is going on?”

Martin resisted the urge to scratch his scruffy jaw. “Um. I, well, I was told that I’m not really a professional pilot.”

“Were you. Granted, MJN has its quirks, but I thought I could depend on you to balance that.” Carolyn was giving no quarter and Martin’s ears grew hot.

“You could! I mean, you can. Could. What I mean is, if you can’t beat them, you may as join them. No one respects my… my abilities and attention to my duties or even pretends I have any authority, so why bother?”

“Am I correct in assuming Douglas was the one who made you feel inadequate?”

Martin debated telling her what he thought of her instigation of the disastrous game of Travelling Lemon but self-preservation reared its head and quickly quelled the rebellious surge. “Yes. He said I wasn’t a professional pilot since, since I have no salary. So -”

“You do realise I could still dismiss you,” Carolyn said.

Martin’s temper flared in a burst of sarcasm worthy of Douglas. “You _could._ I mean, gosh, it’ll be a hardship going without - oh, wait, I don’t get paid. Can one fire volunteers? Can you afford it?”

Carolyn leaned back. “All right. How long will you keep,” waving a hand at his dishevelment, “ _this_ up?”

“It - I don’t know. It depends.”

Carolyn sighed. “Fine. I'll threaten Douglas with a course in Ipswich on appropriate workplace interaction. Bad enough to have two half-wits flying without both of them being so feckless that we’ll lose business. But really, Martin, I thought you had thicker skin. You do realise if we didn’t like you, we wouldn’t tease you. Imagine if I treated you like a customer.” Her smile was wolfish.

Martin gulped. _Gods forfend._ He'd never enjoy another drink that Carolyn served him without wondering. But at least she was taking his side.  “And... the other thing?”

Carolyn paused in collecting her handbag. “Pardon?”

“My - my salary.”

“What.” Carolyn turned her gimlet gaze back on him and it was too much. Martin’s nerve broke.

“Not that I want much! But if you want me to stay, I - I need it. I need to know you have respect enough for my skills to pay me for my time. I - I _am_ a professional, and I demand, no, not demand, can I ask? Yes. I ask to be treated as one.” He sucked air into his burning lungs. “If - if that's not too much trouble?”

Carolyn’s hand covered her brow. Her shoulders were shaking. “Oh, Martin. And you were doing so well.”

“Carolyn!” Martin wished that had sounded less like a whine and more like righteous indignation.

“Oh fine, Captain Crieff. I'll pay you. It'll doubtless be a pittance. Let me scrape what I can out of the books.” Carolyn pushed back her chair. “I'll start you next week.“

“Back paid.” Martin blinked. Did he just say that?

“What!”

Martin gripped the rags of his resolve. “Back paid to that trip to Qikiqtarjuaq.”

Carolyn cocked her head. “Why?”

Martin’s mouth opened and shut a few times but his voice had fled. A slow smile spread across Carolyn’s face.

“Oh ho. You sneaky pilot, you. You want to be able to throw it in Douglas' face, that when he called you an unsalaried peon, you were in fact a paid professional.”

“It's not too much to ask!” Martin burst out. “And you said pittance, I'm not arguing on that point!”

“Very well, Oliver Twist, no need to ask for more. I'll do it, but only for the satisfaction of getting one over on Douglas.”

“Thank you, Carolyn.” Martin stood with her and extended an awkward hand. She shook it. “I appreciate it. And - and it wasn’t easy for me this past week. Sorry.”

“Martin.” Carolyn’s smile was thin but sincere. “I know. If I were the grandmotherly type, I’d pat your foolish head. But I’m not, so begone. Get yourself sorted. You look as though you’ve a hedgehog on your face.”

She sailed off. Martin gaped after her. Well, at least his plan hadn’t backfired. A salary!

The smile spread slowly until his cheeks ached. He’d finally done it, and by himself.

He’d won.

 

 

“She’s going to give me a salary! Can you believe it? And I actually missed playing word games this past week. Douglas cheated, but I didn’t even care because I’m just so happy! It’s such a relief, you don’t know what it’s been like this week.”

“I think I do,” Eros said. He watched Martin pace a short path back and forth, leg brushing the side of the bed and hands flying with excitement. Eros smiled. Martin’s spark was bright and glowing, the triumph of his victory bright within him. Lovely. Well, of course Martin was happy. All obstacles to happy flying had been swept away. No more teasing. Martin was finally coming into his own, confident in himself and his abilities.

 _But what about me_ _?_ Eros wanted to ask. _Will you ever feel for me what you feel for your flying?_ Would he even have Martin much longer? Eros rubbed knuckles over his aching heart. “So that’s what you were keeping from me this week. Facing down the dragon and wresting an apology from the decidedly not-brilliant Douglas. Well done, Martin. I’m so pleased for you, love.”

Martin scrambled on the bed, dressing gown slipping askew. Eros reached a hand to guide him as Martin flung himself at him for a tight hug. “I couldn't have done it without you. You’re the best, a god of gods.”

“Not Zeus,” Eros reminded him. “Try again.”

“Apollo. You’re brilliant, handsome…”

Eros laughed. “No. Haven’t you guessed from the clues yet?”

Martin laughed, embarrassed. “What with one thing and another, I haven’t thought about it. Work being the way it was... I was kind of worrying about other things." He smiled wryly. "Not that you're not important, but... You’re my husband, mystery immortal of the night. I’m sort of getting used to it.”

 _I don’t want you to ‘get used to it’, I want your love!_ Eros forced the insistent thought down. “Tell you what. If you haven’t guessed by the end of the week...”

“Don’t let me win, I can do it!” Martin said.

“Nonetheless. When you return from Japan, you’ll win in the most splendid fashion,” Eros promised. “Lavish prizes. Acclaim.”

“From you?” Martin said. “Or do the prizes come in your shape in bed, by any chance?”

“You found me out.”

Martin giggled but sobered. Eros breathed out as Martin’s thumb ran down the side of his face. “But thank you. For your support. I’m glad you talked me ‘round.”

Eros closed his eyes to block out Martin’s glowing face, concentrating only on the touch of his love’s hand. “Anything for you.”

 


	11. Osaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin sabotages G-ERTI, Douglas saves the day and Martin does his best water-fowl imitation.

 [23rd of Thargelion, Year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, late spring]

[Local Date: 平成二十一 , 早月, 十八日 (Year 21 of Heisei era, Satsuki - month of planting rice sprouts, 18th day)]

 

 

“Hades take our mistress and commander, or in view of our locale, may Enma come and take her away.” Douglas slung his flight bag into the locker with unusual vehemence. “We scarcely touch down in Osaka and get some sleep before we are flung skyward again with a great sodding load of ‘mums. Why on earth would anyone want a jet-full of flowers from Japan anyway? It’s not like there aren’t plenty in the British Isles.”

“Gates of Hell,” Martin corrected as he ran through the pre-flight checklist again. “Enma might be the lord of Hell, but all he does is stand at the gates and decides which path the soul takes. There's no snatching anyone! Carolyn would be an unlikely Persephone anyway. The chrysanthemums are for a Japanese exec’s imperial-themed party. Some nostalgic charity event, I understand.”

“Ha. If Carolyn did meet him, or Hades for that matter, she’d challenge him to a duel, cut him to pieces with her tongue and take over the place in a trice,” Douglas said. “And be well-suited to the job, too. What beasty do you think she'd sent you back to be?”

“Oh, that’d be brilliant, coming back as an animal!” Arthur said, appearing in the door with hands full of carrier bags. “I’d quite like to be a raven.”

“A raven?” Douglas said. “I’d have thought you’d want to come back as a dog, Arthur. Lying about all day, sniffing things, walks. Very relaxing.” Martin rolled his eyes, thankful Douglas had forgone the obvious comparison with Arthur’s cheerful inanities and dogs’ intelligence.

“Yeah, dogs are brilliant. But people say, ‘It’s a dog’s life!’ and they don’t mean it’s nice at all.” Arthur opened the galley fridge and began loading plastic boxes into it. “But ravens, they look like they are having a laugh all the time. They’re clever. I’d like to be clever. Best of all, you often see them just hanging out. Like me and you guys. And we’d go flying just like now!”

“That’s… very insightful, Arthur,” Martin said, struck. Arthur's words reminded him of himself as a boy, meeting the winged god. _You'll never have to fly alone as pilot,_ he'd told Martin. “Sounds good, in fact.”

“Having wings is brilliant,” Arthur assured him.

“Is it? I suppose so,” Douglas said. “Were you able to get the _unagi_?”

Arthur wrinkled his brow. “Er, well, I got oo-something with the bentos. It’s got some yellow squidgy stuff on top?”

Douglas pursed his mouth. “ _Uni._ Ah, well. Not perfect, but not a bad substitution. Especially as considering I’d been hoping to have a lovely dinner of hand-made sushi before Carolyn kiboshed that plan.”

“What are... those things? Uni?" Martin had to ask. Douglas, with his years of international flying and gormandising under his belt, had an enviable knowledge of local delicacies.

“Unagi is grilled eel. Delicious and a well-known aphrodisiac.” He winked at Martin. “Uni are the raw gonads of sea urchin. and also an aphrodisiac.”

“Urgh!” exclaimed Arthur. “I’m not having any of that. You’d never eat… eat _sea goolies_ , would you, Skip?”

Martin bit the side of his mouth. “Don’t think I need the help,” he murmured. Douglas overheard him and crossed his arms, tapping a finger until Martin looked up at him. Douglas smirked.

“My, my. Is that a smug reflection upon being married to a god, a shot at my aged decrepitude or an oblique reference to Sir’s stamina?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to to yearn for,” Martin said but couldn’t help the smile twitching up the corners of his mouth.

Arthur interrupted the banter, saying loudly, “I got a Don Bowl for you and octopus balls for me, Skip.”

“Octopus _what?_ Douglas, shut up,” Martin hissed as Douglas shouted with laughter.

Arthur held out the carton. “They’re breaded bits of octopus tentacles made into round balls, see? I don’t care for the tentacle lumps but I love the breading around them! Try one?”

Martin choked a negative. Douglas opened his mouth, presumably to make a joke about Japan, tentacles or balls but Martin cut him off.

“I just finished the checks. Walk around done?”

“Done, done and well done. Nothing left but to fly thousand of pounds worth of iced ‘mums across the mind-numbing stretches of central Asia.”

Martin groaned. It wasn’t the flying, never that, but their last trip through Siberia had been tedious in the extreme.

“Don’t worry, chaps!” Arthur said. “If you get bored up there alone in front, there’s always charades.”

“No!” said Martin and Douglas in unison.

“Oh,” Arthur whined.

 

 

“Omsk Tower to Golf Tango India, continue on your current vector, stay on target and good luck.”

“Thank you, Tower, and pust' sila budet s vami, young Skywalker,” said Douglas. A snort was the reply to his sally, and he clicked off.

“Was that, ‘May the Force be with you’, Douglas?” said Martin. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian. Or were a fan.” This leg of the trip was Douglas’ and he had nothing to do except keep him company and monitor.

“Of course. I fancy I’d be a Jedi master.”

“Not Han Solo?” Martin could picture a younger Douglas as the devil-may-care pilot.

“Ah, Sir flatters me, but no. Jedi, definitely. Intelligent, charismatic, and amazing ability? That doesn’t sound like any pilot in this aeroplane?”

Martin made a disgusted noise. “Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“What can I say? The gods always go out of their way to make life easy for one Douglas Richardson.” Douglas smiled his lazy smile, sure of his place in the world.

“I suppose in your world-view that must make me the helpless princess.”

“As I recall, she only asked for rescue once, but if the shoe fits,” Douglas drawled. Martin yawned and stretched.

“Fine, have it your way. I’m going to use the loo. Want a drink?”

“By all means. Is there any of that sake left from the offering, Princess?”

“Ha hah. Green tea for you.” Martin unclipped his harness and made his way back through through the cabin. G-ERTI’s cargo hold had been filled with cartons of budding chrysanthemums that had overflowed into the cabin. Styrofoam boxes were under seats, in overhead bins and even belted into seats. Arthur was engrossed in a Nintendo game and waved at him as he passed.

He used the toilet, washed his hands and looked at himself in the tiny mirror. Pale, freckled across his nose, a bit tired. Nothing special, really, aside from having an immortal spouse. Odd, though. Ever since Qikiqtarjuaq, Douglas had been nicer to him. It was almost like - like flirting. Why? And why? And why him? Douglas was a handsome man, older to be sure, but still capable of attracting lovely beings of either sex with ease. Maybe it was because Douglas respected the fact that Martin had wrung an apology for his previous behaviour from him. It was like that for some people - they never looked at you twice until you stood up for yourself.

Martin sighed. He _had_ cut a weak figure before, but he was getting much better. Maybe once upon a time, he’d have been thrilled to have Douglas’ attentions, but now? Typical of his luck that once he was off the market, he was getting more attention than he’d ever had.

And then there was Arthur. Martin wasn’t quite sure what to make of the steward’s behaviour. Douglas’ flirting, well, that was _Douglas_. Arthur’ solicitude, the slightly nicer cheese trays - well, maybe Arthur was trying to be extra nice. Only to Martin, mind. But the way Arthur cut in when people got too flirty, like he had today with Douglas - that was just… odd. It was almost as if… No. Stupid thought. Arthur was just looking out for Martin like any good friend would.

Martin raked his over-long hair back,. He ought to get a haircut, never mind how his husband enjoyed the tumble of curls. After a final squint in the mirror, he returned to the galley and got out a bottle of water and green tea. They were warm to the touch. Martin frowned. “Arthur?” he called. “There’s something wrong with the fridge.”

Arthur joined him. “You’re right, Skip. When did that happen? It was fine when we left.”

“Never mind. It’s G-ERTI being her inconvenient self,” Martin sighed.

“How well does sushi keep if it’s warm?”

“Not very well.” Martin considered the bento boxes. “We could eat now them now, I suppose.”

“I know, Skip!” Arthur said. “We can use some of the ice from the flowers! I opened one to have a peek - it had big chunks of ice in bags.”

“Good idea.” Martin unbelted a container and lifted it to pull off the strapping. The white foam box was cumbersome and heavy on one end. G-ERTI dipped in a pocket of turbulence and he staggered. The box slipped from his grasp and caught on an armrest, cracking and spilling its frigid contents over the carpet. “Oh, hells. Arthur, can you get these flowers?” Several stems and buds were mangled. He’d have to note that on the cargo manifest. Gods, Carolyn wouldn't be happy about that.

Arthur busied himself tidying the ‘mums and Martin grabbed the two ice bags by their twisted tops. One slid neatly into the space between the shelves in the fridge but the other was much too bulky. Martin looked at it in growing irritation. He couldn’t leave it unsecured and it was going to leak everywhere! Fine. Down the toilet it went. He carried the bag back to the loo, untwisted the top and let the chunks of opaque ice clatter into the steel bowl. Martin hit the flush button and watched as the bright blue liquid swirled and the pieces were sucked down into the tank. Satisfied, he turned away.

That was when the noise began - a sort of bowel-deep rumble from the innards of G-ERTI. Martin froze. The noise rose to a liquid burbling moan. The hairs on Martin’s arms quivered and rose. He turned back. The bowl of the toilet was full of heaving, bubbling bright blue, which began to rise in in a turbid fountain, splashing over the sides and up the walls. A white mist was curling around his ankles, growing thicker as he watched with mouth open.

“Oh. Oh, sweet gods. Arthur. Arthur!” Martin shouted. Arthur appeared at his side, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Skip. What did you do?”

“I flushed the ice. Why is it doing that? Was that ice?” Martin scrabbled at a nearby box, looking at the label. Japanese - he couldn’t read it. He tore it open, shredded the ice bag with his nails and yelped. It _burned._ “Oh ye gods, dry ice, it was dry ice! I just dumped two kilos of dry ice into a tank full of chemicals!”

The toilet made a horrific slurping sound and they both jumped, clutching at each other. “Skip, it’s… not going to blow up, is it?” Arthur whispered. A bubbling tidal wave began to spread, staining the carpet with alien blue. Mist drifted along the aisle.

“Skip, what are we going to do? Won’t the smoke detectors go any second?” Arthur’s fingers were digging into Martin’s biceps. Martin was not ashamed to admit he was probably drawing blood in return.

“I don’t know!” Martin’s mind tried to hide gibbering in a corner of his head. “Um, um, um, just - oh gods, get some blankets and dam up -” Blue foam splattered the walls of the loo and their trouser legs as the toilet gave forth a mighty belch. “Never mind, just, just - _run!_ ”

They legged it to the flight deck and burst through the door, panting.

“Douglas!” “Douglas, _help_!”

“Did you bring my drink? Oh, you brought me an Arthur. I find this substitution unacceptable.”

“Douglas, the toilet is - I think - Douglas, I think the toilet… I, we, it’s _everywhere!_ ” Martin’s tongue refused to cooperate.

Douglas glanced over his shoulder and his brows shot up. “Why is there a wall of white creeping up behind you? Is there a fire?” He looked at the smoke detector light which remained unlit. He tapped it. “Not crying wolf, I see. What’s going on? Quickly.”

Arthur’s hands were flapping. “Douglas, the toilet is going to blow up and the tail will fall off -”

Martin tried to speak over him. “Uh, there was this ice, and um, um, it may have gotten flushed -”

“And I don’t think I had training for when toilets explode -”

“And now there’s _fog_ in the cabin and a geyser of _toxic chemicals_ leaking all over and we _happen_ to be in this metal tube thousands of feet up -”

“And we’re going to die and Mum will kill me if I do that!”

“So as the captain I believe the best thing is to divert and ditch in the nearest airfield.”

Douglas cut across the panicked babble. “Ice? What do you mean?”

“ _Dry_ ice! I didn’t know the flowers were packed with dry ice, the fridge was broken and Arthur suggested -”

“So Skip dumped a bag in the toilet.”

“I didn’t know it was _dry ice_!” Martin’s voice hit its upper registers.

Douglas began unclipping his harness. “I’d better take a look. Martin, sit. Arthur, you too. Stay calm. Breathe, Martin. Don’t move, don’t do anything except fly this plane. Better yet, engage autopilot and don’t touch _anything._ ”

He left at a near-jog, disappearing into the thickening mist. Arthur plonked onto the jump-seat, hands gripping the seat as if manacled there. Martin jittered. If Douglas didn’t say anything within ten seconds, he was definitely radioing for help. And ditching. He didn’t care what Carolyn would say - diverting was less costly than crashing.

From the back of the cabin came a whoop of laughter that expanded into a belly laugh. “Double, double, toil and trouble! Oh, oh, you pair of _clots._ It’s positively...” The sentence trailed off as Douglas began laughing helplessly.

“Douglas!” Martin howled. “This is not funny! I don’t want to be known as the pilot flying the first plane - no, the first _vehicle_ in the history of mankind to crash because a toilet exploded!”

Douglas re-emerged from the fog and shut the door, grinning. “Why worry? It would hide all the evidence. But we’re not going to crash.”

Arthur blew a breath of relief. “Oh, I knew it would be all right.”

“Not yet it isn’t. Arthur, go find something long and thin that will reach into the tank. We need to stir that witch’s brew up, to dissipate the CO2. It’ll stop the reaction that’s causing the overflow. Scoot.”

Arthur, evidently much happier with something to do, ran off. Martin’s neck muscles were in knots. “Shall I radio that we’ve an emergency? I’ll radio.”

“Not yet. _Martin._ ” Douglas’ voice was commanding. “Think! Knowing you, you’ve read the specs on G-ERTI backwards and forwards. Is there anything beneath the cabin in the rear that can be damaged by the overflow?”

Martin dug his nails into his sweating palms. “Um. Um.” He closed his eyes and visualised. “No. There’s wiring for the floor lights, of course. Nothing major to short out. Just the cargo area, for the most part. And that’s full of boxes.”

“Which are plastic and unlikely to suffer harm. Good. I think we’ll be good to press on”

Martin released a shaky breath, his heart rate beginning to slow. _Oh, thank you, thank you Tyche, I didn’t kill us all with a weaponised toilet_. “Okay. Fine. Great!”

Arthur flung open the door brandishing a long metal tube while mist drifted around him, a beaming conqueror in a red cravat. “I found this! It’s an extension thingy for the fire extinguisher. Will this work?”

“Perfect!” congratulated Douglas. “Stick that magic wand into the tank and start swirling. We need to get the bubble out of the broth. Our intrepid captain will join you shortly.” Arthur saluted with his tube and left.

“Oh, Douglas, I don’t think -” Martin began. There had been a lot of liquid on the floor. Sterile, to be sure, but full of dye and chemicals and… other stuff. He’d rather step back - far back - and let Arthur handle it.

“Not thinking is the reason there’s well over ten gallons of Smurf fizz ruining Carolyn’s carpeting,” Douglas pointed out. “You flushed it, my captain. It’s only fair you finish it.” His wide grin and sparkling eyes showed only too well how he was enjoying his temporary ascendancy over his superior. Martin snarled but gave in.

“Fine. You have control -”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Douglas held up a finger. “Where do you think you are going?”

“You just told me!”

Douglas shook his head, as if saddened by what the world had come to. “I cannot believe it. My captain, the soul of rule-stickling, the prince of procedure, is going to entrust the lives of two souls to his knowledge of G-ERTI’s mechanics?”

“What?”

“You have to contact flight control. Get a patch through to the mechanics and tell them the problem. Just to be certain.” Douglas’ expression was prim. Martin’s mouth opened and shut several times.

“You… _you_ … want me to call. A mechanic, one that just might know the schematics of an outdated jet like G-ERTI. And explain to them that our toilet exploded, never mind how.”

“It _is_ the correct procedure," Douglas said in a pious tone. "Sir."

Martin’s eye twitched. _Oh, my sweet gods of the air_. So this - this seething mass of irritation and resentment - _this_ was how Douglas felt whenever Martin clobbered him with proper procedure. He'd swear they'd switched brains but this kind of thing never happened to bloody Douglas! And he’d be damned before he told everyone on this frequency that he’d turned his plane into the flying equivalent of a men’s toilet at a glam rock concert. Douglas could radio for help, gods damn it!

Douglas waited, a gleam in his eye.

Martin's mouth opened. To his surprise, a choked giggle came out. “Yes. Of course.” Another laugh escaped. “Sorry, sorry!” He just had to bow to the inexorable absurdity of his situation. “By all means, First Officer Richardson. I’ll make the call.”

Douglas looked surprised that for once Martin had decided not to throw his rank around. Martin clapped both hands over his mouth to smother the giggles as the awful tension found its release. Douglas’ deep chuckles joined his as tears of hilarity swam in Martin’s eyes.

Martin gasped for breath. “Right. Oh, ye gods, I wish I wasn’t about to do this.” He flicked the switch for the high-frequency radio. “Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, calling Omsk Tower…”

The conversation was every bit as tricky as Martin had thought it would be.

"Well, uh, we have this issue, uh, it appears that... that some dry ice made its way into the toilet tank..."

"Masterful use of the passive voice, my captain," Douglas said, unabashedly listening in. Martin bared his teeth at him, face burning.

The mechanic sounded more curious than appalled. "What? Dry ice?"

Martin ground his teeth."Yes. Someone put dry ice in the toilet and flushed it."

Douglas lifted his brows. ‘ _Someone?_ ’ he mouthed.

"Who did that? And why?"

Martin floundered for a moment. "I... uh... I... I'm not sure the why and who are relevant -"

"Well, I have to put it in the report, because if there's a concern of safety or security, then procedures may have to be updated or corrected."

Douglas slumped in his seat, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Martin sent a silent prayer to the gods for patience, scowling at Douglas. Oh, of _course_ he’d get the one mechanic in all of Russia who liked things by the book. The irony was choking. "Oh, well, um, we're carrying cargo that are in cartons, and the contents are being kept cool by dry ice. One of them broke open and a bag of the ice fell out. To dispose of the ice, the, uh, a member of the crew, thinking it was regular ice, decided to flush it down the toilet."

"Okay. So this was done by a crew member? Not a passenger?"

"Yes, yes, that's right."

"Can I have the crew member's name and position, please?"

Martin’s brain stalled. "Uh... I... uh..."

Douglas stage-whispered, "It may have begun with a 'C'."

Martin muted the radio and turned on him. “Gods curse it, Douglas! You made me make the call, will you please just shut up already?”

Douglas’ broad grin was ear-to-ear. “Apologies, my captain. Carry on with your masterful dissembling.” Near the end of his tether, Martin made a strangled noise. Douglas shut his mouth and mimed zipping it.

Martin flicked the radio back on, hunching away from Douglas and lowering his voice. "Is the name really necessary? I mean, I don't want to embarrass the poor fellow - he already feels bad enough as it is..."

"All right, fine,” came the reply. “I'll just put 'crew member'. Well, moving on..."

The ordeal at last ended with the bemused mechanic corroborating Martin’s theory. “Nothing to worry about. You’re handling the situation just fine. Keep agitating the stuff until there’s no more mist. Press on.” Martin switched off and pressed his head back into his seat.

“Heavens. You’ll never let me live this down, will you.”

“Not a chance,” Douglas agreed. “By the by, it’s not that I didn’t have faith in your knowledge, Martin. I was quite certain you were right about the wiring.”

Martin rolled his head to look at him, surprised at the compliment. “Thank you.”

Douglas smirked. “But who am I to pass up such a golden opportunity to, ahem, take the piss?”

Martin groaned. “No. That’s - that's _awful._ ”

Douglas lifted a brow, the smile still curling his mouth. “In the meantime, best you battle your way through the mists to the terrible toilet and join the fray with Arthur. It’s the least you can do after the fright you gave him. Once more unto the breach, Princess.”

Martin screwed up his face but levered himself from his seat. “Smug git. Well, I suppose I needed new shoes anyway.”

He slammed the door on Douglas’ snicker.

 

 

“Darling.”

Martin awoke as the sheets were slowly dragged down his body. He uttered a cranky noise. A low laugh was his response as the covers inched their way down past his hips and down his thighs.

“Sweet, it’s lovely to have you back, safe, sound and - what’s this?”

 _My bare arse?_ Martin thought as cool air touched his skin. He’d collapsed into bed after his shower when he’d got home, forgoing the trouble of pyjama bottoms. Not that he minded being woken up by his husband. Martin hummed sleepily. Love-making more than made up the inconvenience of taking naps at odd hours to keep up on his sleep. Besides, when he absolutely needed it because of an early morning flight, his husband seemed content to wrap himself around Martin and let him slumber in his arms. Martin shifted his hips, willing to be awoken in more than one way.

A stifled snort of laughter caught his attention.

Martin’s brows drew together. “Mm?” What was so funny - _oh!_ His eyes sprang open as he scrabbled for the sheets. “No, no, don’t look!”

The covers were yanked away. “Oh, yes, yes, Martin! Don’t you dare hide these marvels from me!”

Martin sat up cross-legged, shoulders hunching in embarrassment as he tried to tuck his feet as far under his knees as he could manage. “I tried to wash it off.” Several times, until his skin was sore.

“But they’re so… _blue_ ,” his husband marvelled, the laughter still lurking in his voice. A hand snaked around his ankle and tugged. Martin wriggled and slapped at the wrist to no avail. His shame was dragged out kicking wildly and he toppled back on the bed. “Oh, sweet skies, Martin, how? How can you fly off to Osaka one day and come home with these? Is this some bizarre Asian fashion? Tell me it’s not.”

“Let go - ah! ha ha! Stop that!” His husband was running his lips along the arch of his foot, and was now biting lightly at his big toe. “You might want to stop… no, oh, oh!” Martin put his free foot against his husband’s chest and pushed. “You don’t know where it’s been!”

“This foot has been to Japan, and now it’s a charming indigo. But I won’t know where’s it’s been more specifically until you tell me, sweet.” Martin screeched as lips were placed against the bottom to make a farting noise. “Speak, I won’t stop until I have the tale!”

“Oh, gods.” Martin squirmed. “Fine, fine.” His foot was lowered and fingers began kneading it. “Well, um. We were on the last leg, when… when someone put dry ice down the toilet.”

“I thought you had no passengers. Did Carolyn find a customer for the homeward flight?”

“No, no passengers. It was just the usual crew, excepting Carolyn.”

“Surely Douglas wouldn’t -”

“No, of course, our mighty mortal _sky-god_ wouldn’t do anything like that,” Martin said, testiness escaping him.

“Ah. Must have been Arthur the Clot, yes?”

“I… er, well…” Driven to the last ditch, Martin debated whether he should let the blame fall on Arthur. Honesty made him say it. “Uh. No. No, it wasn’t Arthur.”

His husband was grinning, Martin knew it. “Oh, but who could it have been? There’s only one person left, and leaving out stowaway ninjas -”

Martin covered his face with his hands and groaned. “Okay, yes, it was me, it was me! I flushed dry ice down the toilet! I was the one who caused a reaction that flooded the cabin with blue fizz! Satisfied now? I’m the clot, the idiot, the dolt who did it! So I spent the rest of the flight helping Arthur clear it up. My shoes and socks were ruined, and before I could change them, the damage was done.”

His husband was shaking, with an occasional giggle escaping. “Oh, Martin.”

“Are you happy now you know what a blockhead you married?” Martin said, indignant. “I mean, who on earth could possibly laugh knowing that their spouse left a perfectly normal colour and came back a, a _blue-footed booby_?”

At that his husband couldn’t contain a shout of laughter. “You are precious, if a tad prone to accidents. I wouldn’t exchange you for a thousand mortals. You’re my booby, blue-footed or otherwise. I’m happy to have you home and safe, regardless of the condition of your feet.”

“Well, I did have a few bad moments,” Martin said. _Utter panic, until Douglas smacked me about the head and told me to think._ “But once I realised the flood wasn’t going to short anything out -”

“Oh, good. I’m glad. Poor Martin. What luck you have.” He chuckled again. “But I do dread what might happen to you, you know.” The god pressed a thumb into the pad of his foot and Martin groaned in pleasure at the massage. “You are competent, if only you’d relax and realise it.”

“You think so? How do you know?” Martin sighed as the hands moved up his calf, soothing and caressing.

“I know _you_. And it’s rather attractive on those occasions when you forget your lack of self-confidence.”

“Oh. You - you think so?” Martin considered. The unseen hands continued their teasing strokes, sliding up to his hips. One part of Martin was feeling confident of his attractions and was insisting he do something about it.

“Again, I know so. How about it?”

“Fine. You’re on.” Martin sat up, the hands on his waist guiding him as his husband rolled them until he was straddling his thighs. Once atop, he felt unaccountably shy and lowered himself to lie on his husband, kissing him to cover his uncertainty. His husband hummed in appreciation as their erections were pressed between them. Emboldened, Martin nipped that full lower lips and sucked it into his mouth, hitching up a leg to rub their lower bodies together.

“Mm,” his husband whispered. “Oh, that’s lovely. Could this be the mating dance of the blue-footed booby I feel? I _like_ it.”

Martin was betrayed into a snort of laughter. “Sorry! Oh, gods, must you say things like that when I'm trying to seduce you?”

“Sweet, I was seduced the moment I laid eyes on you. Anyway, why shouldn't I make you laugh in bed? Love-making isn't life or death. But where were we? Ah, yes. Me, under you, at your mercy? Carry on.”

“Scoot up, then.” His husband obliged, sitting back against the headboard while Martin positioned himself between his legs. He hadn't been very good at this to start with, but under his husband’s skilled tutelage and demonstrations, he was growing better. He grasped the root of his husband’s erection and mouthed at the tip, letting his tongue slide over the slick groove before taking it in. A hand settled on his hair as his head moved, applying gentle suction and using his tongue. Gods, this was nice, he was enjoying having a cock in his mouth with heavy breathing and groans encouraging him. He did feel capable, more so than he had with other lovers. _Confidence was sexy,_ he reminded himself. He took himself in hand as the hand carded his curls, pumping himself slowly in time to the movement of his head.

“Skies, Martin.” The voice was hoarse and Martin felt a thrill of power. “Get up here, please, I can’t take much more of that.”

Martin firmed his grip on his husband’s cock. He rolled his eyes up to where he supposed his lover’s face would be and hummed low in negation.

A shaky sigh. The fingers tightened in his curls before falling away. “As you will, then.”

Martin pulled off with a gasp, smiling a tiny smile. He closed his eyes and let the wet tip trace the shape of his mouth, enjoying the small curse his action wrung from his husband. Letting his own aching erection go, he curved his hand along a hip until his fingers pressed into springy buttock. He took a deep breath and went back to his task with gusto, encouraging tiny thrusts with his hand and controlling how deep he swallowed with the other. There, just that rhythm, saliva making everything slick as he pumped, _oh yes, those noises, I’m doing that to him, me -_

“There, I’m there, _Martin -_ ”

Beneath his tongue Martin felt the first pulse begin. He choked, swallowed, and swallowed again. _Oh, smooth one there, Martin_ . With care he drew his mouth away and took a deep breath. But either his husband didn’t notice the bobbled finish or didn’t care, as hands found Martin’s shoulders. He was guided up to lie against his husband’s heaving chest. Before he could protest about the state of his mouth, Martin was being thoroughly snogged. _Oh, well, then._ He gave himself up to the kiss with enthusiasm.

“You’re marvellous,” his husband said. “Oh, I could watch you doing that for hours, but I don’t want to be greedy and wear out this perfect mouth.” Martin’s ears turned hot at the compliment.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes! On the other hand, the more godly nectar you consume, the closer you’ll be to being an immortal yourself.”

“What?” Martin yelped. _Oh, ye gods, no one ever taught me that in religious studies!_ He felt the betraying quiver of laughter beneath him and dared to thump his husband’s chest. “You sod, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

His husband wheezed. “Sorry, but your face! Trust me, if you ever taste nectar, you’ll know it.”

Martin sniffed, and tasted the corner of his mouth, tongue curling in what he hoped was a provocative manner. “Well… in the meantime...”

“Little tease,” his husband growled and kissed him again. “Turn around. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

In short order Martin was positioned on his husband’s lap, back against his broad chest and head resting against a shoulder. There was click and a lubricated hand settled around Martin’s neglected cock with assurance. Martin blinked. “Do we need, ah, lube for this?”

“Might do,” said his husband in a non-committal tone. “Tell me how to go on, though.”

“Um,” Martin said. Gods, his face must be beet-red now. He wasn’t much for talking in bed. “Um. Could you - just a bit tighter? Ah, yes.” He covered his burning face with a hand and spoke through his fingers. “Uh, a little faster, oh - oh, yes, that’s nice.”

“Hand down, darling, I can’t hear you,” his evil husband said. Martin reluctantly dropped his hand from his mouth. The slick hand smoothed up and down his erection, thumb brushing the tip with each stroke. Martin’s hips began to move up into the grasp, seeking more friction. The hand immediately loosened and Martin groaned his frustration.

“No, sweet, you’re in command here, all you have to do is - tell me,” the rich voice purred.

Martin felt a whine start in the back of his throat. “Gods, fine, please, just - tighten your grip, more, and, and do it harder. Oh, _oh_ \- no, no, nonono!” Again his husband’s hand had slackened the moment Martin’s hips twitched. “All right, all right! Just - just like before, only... more!”

The small battle went on for some time until Martin was covered in sweat and frantic, babbling and no longer caring what came out his mouth. “Oh, you, please, _please_ , I need to, your hand, oh sweet Eros, just - faster!”

“Yes,” his husband whispered against Martin’s damp cheek. “Yes, darling, as you command.” His hand twisted just so and Martin’s back arched as he came, blind and deaf to anything but his release.

He came round to the murmur of sweet nonsense into his hair. “Bright, bright, beautiful spark. My wonderful Martin.” Lips pressed his brow, his cheek. “Are you with me, love?”

“Ungh,” Martin managed. His brain was sluggish. “Oh, by Eros. How do you do that?”

“Is this where I make a joke about age and experience again?” His husband chuckled.

“No, but really." Martin blinked, filled with a pleasurable haze. "You’re like, like some kind of love god.”

There was a small pause before his husband replied, “Mmm. Thank you.”

Martin’s attention snagged. “Wait. Wait. You’re not really?” From rosy afterglow his brain kicked into high throttle so fast a spike of pain shot through his head. _Wings. Feathered wings, and unbelievably good love play. No, not just skill and experience - a preternatural knowledge of what to do and when and… and ancient, and WINGS. Oh, ye_ gods!

“Sweetheart?”

“You _are._ Oh gods, which one?” Martin’s heart was trying to beat itself out of his chest. “Please, not Anteros, not punishment! No, no… Let me think!” He jackknifed forward, grasping his hair. “Feathered wings, not butterfly wings. Pothos?”

There was a snort. “Don’t insult me.”

Was he Himeros? No, not that one, Martin wasn’t suffering unrequited love or uncontrollable desire. _Well, yes, I can't help getting a bit hot and bothered if I let my mind drift during long flights, but..._   “I mean, yes, gods, you’re amazing, I've never had better sex but - but -!”

“Thank you.”

_Oh, skies, did I say that aloud? I did._

“I did say if you guessed, I’d confirm it,” his husband said, employing a soothing tone.  “Martin, sweet, don’t yank like that, I prefer your hair on your head.”

“Okay. Okay.” Martin panted, open-mouthed. “Okay. So, since the others are not you and you can only be you, the only one left - however unlikely it is - must be you.”

“Unlikely how?” His husband seemed genuinely curious.

“That - that - that you are… You must be… that your name is…” Martin gulped for air. “I - I - I… excuse me, I need to use the toilet.” He catapulted from the bed and stumbled in the direction of the door. He found it via a door handle in his sternum, knocking the breath from him.

“Martin!” The voice behind was both alarmed and annoyed.

“Sorry. Sorry!” Martin fled down the dark hall to the toilet and slammed the door. Lock - would a lock keep out a god? He locked it anyway and switched on the light for good measure. There. He couldn’t see Er... _his husband_ in the light. Ergo, his husband also couldn’t see him with the lights on.

A flash of white had him whirling around. It was only his reflection in the mirror. He looked at himself - eyes huge and shocked, complexion white enough that his freckles stood out in stark contrast, his own come dripping down his chest. A snort of hysterical laughter escaped him.

This was what Ero - _his husband_ \- had married. Martin turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face. He grabbed a towel and wiped the mess from his skin, hands shaking. No, it couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. What in Hades was his luck? The god he’d met as a child, the one he’d venerated above all others - now his spouse? It was frightening, even creepy, as if he’d been Fate’s stalking horse his entire life. He slumped, sitting on the edge of the bath, elbows on knees and head bowed. A tap at the door brought his head up. “You can’t come in! I - I’ve got the lights on!”

“Turn them out,” Ero - his _spouse_ said in such a reasonable tone that Martin wanted to scream. “Martin, won’t you come and discuss this? I hate to do this through a door. I’d no idea you’d react in such a - no, scratch that, your reaction is entirely consistent.”

“What, you thought I’d just go, ‘Oh, right then, jolly good!’ simply because the god of… because I’m joined with…” Martin gritted his teeth and got it out. “Because I’m married to Eros?”

“Ah,” the voice on the other side of the door sighed. “Yes, that’s it. Say it again?”

“Eros! Eros is my husband. You are Eros, and I’m your consort! Happy now?” Martin shouted. “I’ve guessed it! God of love! Eros! Eros! _Eros!_ ”

“Mm. That didn’t have quite the same effect,” his husband said. Martin’s brain reeled with another realisation.

“Oh! Oh - you… you! You mean every time I accidentally called his - your - _the name_ during sex, I was _praying_ to you?”

“Well, it was a sort of invocation and entirely natural, given the circumstances,” the rich voice pointed out.

“You never said anything!”

“I assumed you weren’t actively guessing my name.” Eros sounded a shade cynical. “What a person shouts in the throes of passion isn’t the most reliable evidence, you know.”

Martin gurgled with fury. “It must have been hilarious for you!”

“No,” Eros said. “No, not at all. Rather a different feeling, to be honest. Martin, won’t you please open the door?”

“Nope, thanks, I think I’m good,” Martin said. “I’m quite comfortable. Could be here awhile.” He wasn’t, though. The porcelain of the bath was chilly against his skin, he was shivering and all the extra towels were in the linen cupboard in the hall. He wrinkled his nose at the damp twisted towel in his hands.

“Oh.” The syllable was a low exhalation. “If that’s how you feel, darling. I’ll let you be until you come to grips with it.” There was the sound of a palm placed against the door. “It hasn’t been all that bad, has it? Think about it.”

Martin listened to the retreating footsteps and felt a heel. A humiliated, cold heel. Yes, it had been an arranged marriage. Yes, his hopes for a normal, mortal marriage had been swept away. But -  the god of _love._ And him!

Martin rubbed his aching temples. He’d prayed for love for so long and he’d got, well. The god of love. What kind of mad cosmic overbalance was that? He’d been chosen. By the god of _love._ Why, why and why? Was this all some kind of elaborate trick? The _erotes_ were known for slinging arrows indiscriminately at unfortunate sods. What if this whole thing was a ruse? Martin drew his shoulders in. What if he’d been shot by love’s arrow?

But had he? Martin wasn’t in love. Was he? Oh, gods, he couldn’t think. He… he was grateful for the house and the bequests for his family. There was affection, certainly. Eros teased him and made him laugh. The love-making, well. And he seemed to think the world of Martin. Hapless, hopeless, undistinguished mortal Martin Crieff. Unbelievable but true. Why? Insecurity, his constant companion, swooped around him.

Martin drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. _Never mind that now._ He was married, god of love or not. It was working. He could do this. He firmed his resolve, stood and reached for the lock. But before his hand could reach it, the lights went out. He yipped. Nothing happened. “Uh. Hello?”

“Now before you get upset with me, I’d just like to say that it’s entirely up to you whether you come out of the bathroom before daybreak, darling,” Eros’ rich voice said.

Martin flicked the switch. Dead. “You’re not going to try and talk me out? What’s this, then?”

“I’m a being of darkness, sweet.”

“That - that’s not fair!”

Eros’ voice rose over Martin’s indignation. “I’m not saying you ought to come out, or that you must - but if you do decide to, I just wanted you to... be safe. I mean, what if you saw me?”

 _And went mad or… fell irretrievably in love against his will?_ Neither was a good option. “All right, fine. I was coming out anyway.”

“Oh, good,” Eros said, relieved. “Unless you’d rather I came in? We could take a shower. I’ll wash your back.”

“Er, not now.” Martin cut off that promising train of thought. “Maybe another time? I think…” A yawn cracked his jaw. “I think I’d like to go back to bed. I’m all right now.” He groped for the door, unlocked it and stepped out.

“Martin?” The deep voice was tentative. Martin reached and touched bare chest. On impulse he wrapped his arms around his lover. Strong arms came around him and squeezed Martin tight. He buried his face against the broad shoulder and breathed in the scent of warm skin, a little in awe and a bit frightened. But mostly, he felt… content. Happy, even.

Eros stroked his hair over and over, not showing any inclination to move from where they stood in the chilly hallway. It occurred to Martin that his husband was not being his usual teasing, warm self. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No need to apologise. It was stupid of me to make you try and guess my identity. I should have told you sooner.”

“I don’t think my reaction would have been any different,” Martin had to say. He bit his lip. Should he mention that’d they’d met when he was child? No. The coincidence was too strange and a little frightening.

Eros huffed a laugh. “Perhaps not. But please don’t run off like that, Martin, if you can help it. I didn’t like it.”

Martin read the too-tight clasp of the arms around him. _Oh._ “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Can I - How about we run off to bed? Together?” He knew it was a stupid joke.

Eros picked up the lighter tone with ease. “We’ll walk. With dignity and accord.”

“Nude and dignified? Is that even possible?” Martin asked.

“Of course. You’ve seen all those Greek vases. I’ll teach you,” Eros said magnanimously. They returned to bed, arms around each others’ waists. Martin fell asleep against his husband, wrapped in downy warmth as Eros’ wings settled over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some Cabin Pressure-style adventure, with added sexy times and a teeny bit of plot. I did warn that this was a wordy, indulgent fic, so I apologise to anyone reading just for plot.


	12. Throat Lozenges, Fairy Lights and Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin begins to wonder about things.

 

 

 

[24th of Skirophorion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early summer]

 

“I was talking to my mum.”

There was no reason why those words should send a shiver down Eros’ spine. Wendy Crieff was, as evidenced by Martin’s fond affection for his mother, a perfectly amiable lady. All males must have this basic primordial terror in their hindbrain, Eros mused. Fear of the in-laws. He imagined having Hera as a mother-in-law and shuddered. “Yes, dear?”

Martin opened his mouth for another bite of cheese. Eros placed it with care, brushing Martin’s lower lip with his fingers. They were ensconced on the couch in the living room with the coffee table pulled up and spread with finger food.

“Well, I, I mean, we - we’ve never had a proper house-warming. And Fitton’s Euporian festival is in ten days. It would be nice to get together with my family.”

Eros hummed. “County fair day? Sounds delightful.”

Martin shifted, legs brushing against Eros’ “And… after the festival, I’d like to have a celebration here. Small. Just friends and family. Barbecue. That sort of thing. Mum’s dying to see the house.”

“Oh.” Eros considered. “Host a party by yourself?”

“I can cook, you know I can!” Martin protested.

“Yes, darling, and you’re a good one. But for a crowd?”

“Oh.” Martin deflated. Eros took pity on him.

“What about hiring caterers?”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “Not sure I want a bunch of strangers handing out food. Besides, it takes the fun out of a barbecue if you can’t do it yourself.”

“Best be careful Arthur doesn’t help with that. Imagine the singed eyebrows,” Eros said. He considered the problem. “Ask your mother to help co-host, I'm willing to bet she'd love to help. But if you are determined to do the cooking, you can have supplies prepared by professionals and still sacrifice the burgers on your own.”

“I wouldn’t! But that’s a good idea about the food. Thanks.” Martin leaned over, touched the edge of the table, and reached for a plate by memory. At last he held up a grape with a smile. “You always have the best advice.”

Eros bent his head, nipped the grape free and kissed Martin’s fingers. “Anything for you, dearest.” A thought occurred. “Is the day come at last? You're planning to tell your family? About me, I mean.”

Martin picked up on his unease. “You mean, telling them I’ve wound up married to the god of love? Yeah. Seems like a party would be a good time to let them know. In private." He grinned, wry. "Less time for them to interrogate me when I'm going to be busy. But... me, married to Eros. It’s something I’d like kept in the family.”

“You’re an odd one, Martin Crieff,” Eros said. “Do you realise most mortals in your situation would shout the news to the stars? Not ashamed of me, are you?”

Martin leaned away. “No, of course not! But… I don’t want the attention.” His smile was lopsided. “I’m not cut out for that lifestyle, all paparazzi and hangers-on trying to get to you through me. I doubt we could live here any more if people knew. Probably need gates and body guards.”

Eros caught his hand and pressed a kiss to it, penitent. “Very wise.”

Martin turned Eros’ hand over and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles, eyes downcast. “I like being here with you. The privacy.”

“Now you’ve pointed out the detriments, I don’t want to share you with the world after all,” Eros said.

Martin turned his eyes up, squinting into the blackness where Eros sat. “It’ll be nice, having people over.”

“But why didn’t you before?” Eros said. “You’re not a prisoner here! Go out, make friends!” He didn’t enjoy the idea that Martin still felt himself trapped.

Martin shrugged. “I was never much at meeting people, and my, my schedule is odd. Besides, it didn’t seem fair to have a pub night out when you can’t join me.” His cheeks flushed but he essayed a grin. “I live the life of a cat. Between naps in the day, watching telly or playing Flight Sim and work, it’s amazing I have time for you.”

“You’d better. Cat’s life, mm? Are you going to get all promiscuous and rub up against me? Here, kitty.”

Eros picked up a strawberry and held it to Martin’s lips. Martin bit it in half with a snap of his teeth. He swallowed and his tongue flicked out to lick the juice trickling down Eros’ fingers. Eros’ cock stirred and his fingers tightened on the berry, crushing it. More juice ran down, chased by Martin's lips and tongue. “Oh, kitten. You gorgeous thing, you're so good at this. I’m going to make you _yowl_.”

“If I don’t make you first,” Martin retorted. “You may not be aware, but, but there's this love-god?  He's been tutoring me since last Boedromion. It’d be strange if I hadn’t learned a trick or two.” He grasped Eros’ wrist to hold his hand still. Closing his eyes, he used the tip of his tongue to tease at the remains of the strawberry crushed in Eros’ fingers.

Eros’ cock twitched. “ _Fuck_. You little tease, that tongue of yours will get you in trouble.” Eros said, throat gravelly. “Bed or couch? Choose fast.”

“Here,” Martin said. His eyes were dark, lips pink with juice. “That way, we can have a snack afterwards.”

Eros scooped up the jug of cream meant for the strawberries. “Good kitty. Very practical.” Ah, sweet bliss, having a hot young lover crawl up into his lap, hands already working Eros’ trousers loose. He closed his eyes, the better to imprint the sensations in his memory.

 

 

“Good morning, chaps!” Arthur’s cheerful presence filled the Portakabin.

“And good day to you too, Arthur,” Douglas said. “Where’s our master and commander?”

“Doing a libation. I’m going to make tea, d’you want any?”

“Yes, thanks.” Douglas leaned back in his chair and looked at Martin, who was leaning on his hand, blinking at his fuel calculations. “And you, my captain? You look like you need it.”

Martin swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing and nodded.

Arthur switched on the kettle. “Did you hear? We’re going to fly Lord Leverhulme to Canada! He’s going to -”

“No, no.” Douglas held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I want to be kept in suspense as to the laird’s reasons.”

“All right. But Canada again! Brilliant! Do you think we’ll see any more polar bears?”

Bored, Douglas twirled a pen, waiting for Martin to field the question. Martin gulped again and shrugged. Douglas lifted a brow. Martin had been uncharacteristically silent since he arrived. “So Martin,” Douglas said, choosing the question with care. “What are your plans for the Euporian festival?”

Martin glared.

“What’s the matter, Skip? Cat got your tongue?” Arthur asked.

Douglas watched the flush creep up Martin’s neck and the hunch of his shoulders with enjoyment.

“Fine,” Martin said. “Since you brought it up…”

“Oh, Skip. Your voice is really scratchy!” Arthur was all concern. “I’ll make your tea with honey! And lemon.”

“Don’t use the scented hand-wipes,” Martin begged in his rough voice.

“I’ll do my best for you, Skip... oh, there are the lemons!”

Martin’s eyes slid away at the mention of lemons. Douglas grimaced. “Your plans?” he prompted.

“Yeah.” Martin coughed.

Douglas couldn’t help himself, he really couldn’t. “Sore throat? I hope it’s not contagious.”

Martin flushed redder and shook his head. Douglas grinned. “Oh, Arthur,” he sang out. “Could you fetch my lozenges from my flight bag? The _throat_ kind. You’ll have to rummage a bit, they’re hidden quite _deep._ ”

“Go to Hades,” Martin croaked. “It’s just a little irritation. This isn’t a joke.”

“Marriage to a god hasn’t made you any less a target for my teasing. And I beg to differ - it is _very_ funny, my captain.”

“What is?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Martin sounding like a bar singer on a rough night,” Douglas deflected.

“He does a bit,” Arthur agreed. “Here’s your tea, Skip.”

“Thanks.” Martin sipped, saw Douglas watching the movement of his throat with a faint grin and scowled. “See if I invite you to my party.”

“A party? When? Can I come?” Arthur exclaimed.

“After the festival in Fitton. If the weather’s good, there’ll be a barbecue. I wanted to invite you and Carolyn. Douglas too,” Martin added. “If he’ll behave.”

“I’ll even help with the grilling. You haven’t had steak unless you’ve had one cooked by one Douglas Richardson,” Douglas offered. "Practically ambrosia."

“Oh, brilliant!” Arthur said. “Can I bring a friend?”

Martin shrugged. “Why not.”

“Bring a friend to what?” Carolyn entered, mini-wine bottle in hand.

“Martin’s Euporian party,” Douglas supplied. “We’re all invited.”

“Your first party, isn't it? We’d be pleased to come,” Carolyn said. “I assume the spread will plentiful, considering your spouse.”

“Will we be meeting your husband at last?” Douglas said.

Martin stiffened and shook his head.

“But won’t he be there?” Arthur asked. “It’s your house, and parties usually go quite late, and you did say he was noc… nock-tickle? That he only comes out at night, because of the geese.”

“What?” Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Never mind, don’t explain, Arthur. You mean he’s nocturnal. Dear child, you don’t want to get too close to the gods, believe me. Worship from afar, because they are trouble for mortals when they interact directly.”

“Aw,” Arthur complained.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Douglas said. “They can be quite delightful in their up-close interactions.” He winked at Martin.

Martin bridled. “Douglas, can you not? Winking at your superior officer is not appropriate workplace behaviour!” His voice rasped into a painful pitch.

“Yeah, Douglas, leave Skip alone,” Arthur said. “He can’t talk.”

Carolyn asked, “Martin, whatever is wrong with your voice? Are you coming down with something?” Martin buried his face in his hands.

Douglas couldn’t help chuckling.

   
 

 

 

[The 5th day of Hekatombaion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early summer]

 

The fairy-lights twinkled in the gardens of Red Lodge Farm as the sun began its descent. Martin smiled at his mother as she deftly popped one of the remaining kebabs onto a plate and passed it to a waiting guest. Thank Eros and the heavens that Martin had done as advised and drafted Wendy into the party plans. The party had wound up twice as large as he'd expected, thanks to Arthur. Bring a friend, Arthur had asked? He'd made several new friends at the festival in Fitton, and now Martin’s garden was full of hungry students from a nearby agricultural college. His mother’s suggestion about arranging for extra garden furniture meant that everyone was comfortable. Martin mentally blessed his husband's forethought in having food made up by professionals.

Arthur had abandoned his impromptu disc jockey duties and was talking to Martin’s niece and nephew, Agatha and George. Arthur held up a cluster of sparklers and they cheered. Martin watched as Douglas knelt before them and carefully lit the fireworks. “Off with you, don’t get near anyone with those,” Douglas said.

“Arthur, could you go with them?” Martin called.

Arthur grinned at him. "No worries, Skip, I'll look out for them!" He bounded after the children, waving his own sparkler. Martin shook his head, smiling at Arthur's boundless enthusiasm. He made friends as easily with children as he did with adults. It was enviable, really.

“Perfect weather, isn’t it,” Douglas remarked, wandering over to join them. The sleeves of his linen jacket were rolled up to expose strong forearms. He looked casual and handsome, hair falling loose around his face.

Martin looked at his own arms, pink from a mild sunburn that was sure to peel and freckle and sighed at the comparison. "Yes, great day for the festival."

His mother lowered the lid of the grill. “Can I get you a drink, Mr Richardson? Martin?”

“Whiskey, if there’s any, Mrs Crieff, thank you,” Douglas said, on his best behaviour.

“Call me Wendy, please. I’m so pleased to meet one of Martin’s friends.”

“Then I’m Douglas to you,” Douglas said.

 _Gods, he charms everyone!_ “I can get it, Mum,” Martin said. “Douglas, I thought you said you didn't drink?”

Douglas paused, a look of chagrin passing over his face. “Ah. Yes. Familiar situations like parties bring up old habits. I don’t know what I was thinking. Just a soft drink, please.”

“Ginger ale all right? I'll take care of you,” Wendy said with a pat to his arm. Obviously she was feeling sympathetic after that little confession. “You have a nice chat with Martin. I’d love another chance to poke through your kitchen, Martin, if you don’t mind. Your house is so lovely.”

His entire family had been impressed with the tour, though Simon had wondered aloud about a how a god’s taste could run to old English farmhouses. Their awe had been nothing compared to their reaction when Martin revealed the name of his husband to Simon, Caitlin and his mother. Silence had reigned for a few seconds. Then loud astonishment from Simon and Caitlin mingled with his mother’s glad congratulations.

“It is quite the place,” Douglas said.

“Yes,” Martin agreed. “Never imagined I’d have anything like this. And I like having guests. It... it gets lonely on my own.”

Douglas’ brow furrowed. “But you’re not on your own.”

“Yes, well,” Martin sighed. His eye fell on a young couple twined together, swaying to the thump of a pop ballad. The westering sun lit their hair with gold. The girl threw her head back and laughed, her rather ordinary face lit by the rosy glow until she was beautiful. Or maybe that was just the look of love reflected in her features from her young man, Martin thought.

“Ah, young love,” Douglas said, following his gaze.

“Yes,” Martin said, voice low. “Lucky, aren’t they." _They’ll go home, go to bed together, wake up in the same bed in the morning and get to do it all again tomorrow._

Regret dropped over him, weighing down his heart. His family thought it was wonderful Martin had Eros, and it was. He had this house, the sex was amazing, they talked for hours. It was... good, so much better than he'd ever imagined it would be. But they didn’t understand, Martin didn’t think anyone could. If someone offered him the chance to change places with that boy this moment? To have an ordinary life, share laughter and kisses not just in the night but in the sunlight? To see his lover, smile at his smile… There was a lump in Martin’s throat.

He was aware of Douglas giving him an odd look. “It’s nice, isn’t it,” Martin managed. “Doesn’t look like they need my hus… Eros’ blessing.”

“No. No, they don’t seem to need any help in that direction,” Douglas said.

An awkward silence fell, interrupted by the arrival of his sister Caitlin. Her expression was serious. “Martin, can I talk to you?”

Douglas tilted his head and strolled a short distance away to take a glass from Wendy. Simon joined Caitlin, caging him.

“What?” Martin said.

Caitlin pushed her hair back from her face. “I don’t know how to say this, but me and Simon - we're a bit worried about you. I mean, this god stuff was weird right from the start.”

“Are you all right?” Simon said.

“You bring this up now?” Martin said, stung. “You couldn’t have spared a prayer for me before? I’ve been married three seasons!”

“Okay, yes, you’re right, we should have said something earlier,” Caitlin said. “But whenever you called, you were always assuring us everything was fine. It just seemed… off.”

“You do seem a little stressed, Martin,” Simon said.

“I’m hosting my first party!”

“Are you happy?” Caitlin asked, straightforward as ever. "In your marriage. Is he treating you right? The whole 'no-seeing' thing aside."

Martin hesitated. “It’s... it's not perfect. Well, no marriage is, is it? The 'no-seeing' thing, like you say." He flicked a look at the young couple, now engaged in low-voiced, smiling conversation and bit his lip. No, he really had no cause to complain about his marriage. Did he? He was well-provided for. He could reassure Caitlin of that, at least. "But yes. I am. I’m… I’m fond of him.” He was. Really. And... and he had his flying. He would try to resign himself to the rest.

“He’s the god of love, of course you’re ‘fond’ of him!” Simon said. “I’d think his godly influence would make anyone more than _fond!_ And just look at this place!" He gestured with his glass, indicating the house, the expensive vehicles, the manicured garden. He looked a bit dyspeptic. "You don't even have to work, just play at it. You've got the gold ring at last." He snorted.

Martin shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

"You look a bit green-eyed, Simon," Caitlin said with sweet venom. "Do try to be happy for your big brother? Hm?"

"Fond," Simon muttered, but he looked shame-faced at Caitlin's observation.

But Simon’s comment about influence had jolted Martin - was it possible he was being subtly influenced? No, no, that couldn't possibly be true. He'd know, wouldn't he? "But really, Cait, Simon. I'm fine." He pulled a bright smile over his face. It must have worked, because Caitlin softened.

“Okay. If you're sure.” Caitlin gave Martin a hard hug and glared at Simon. “He says he’s fine, and he looks it. That’s all I needed to know. But if you ever have any problems, Martin, call me. God or not, I'll give him what-for.” She gave him a sisterly punch on the bicep and left him with Simon. Martin rubbed his arm, smiling crookedly.

Simon cleared his throat. “Your husband. He really is… _the_ Eros?”

Martin gave a brief nod. "There is only the one." He wondered what Simon would say if he told him he’d known Eros since he was a child. It had been his special secret for so long. But no. Martin was reluctant to even bring it up with Eros. After all, his spouse had his secrets. He swallowed. Being with Eros was wonderful, but… it wasn’t exactly a relationship where they were open with each other. It shouldn’t be surprising that Martin kept something close to his chest, was it?

“But how do you know? That it's... _him,_ ” Simon said. “Caitlin didn’t want to bring it up, but she’s a sopping romantic when it comes to your marriage. Or pragmatic. Not sure which. It's not like you'll ever be able to divorce him, after all.”

“He has _wings,_ " Martin said, choosing to ignore the 'never get the chance to leave your husband _the god'_ part. "He told me he… he is who he says he is. And, and I believe him.”

“You'd take his word for it?” Before Martin could answer, Simon went on. “I mean, after all, you’ve never seen him, right? Are you sure he is what he claims? Don’t forget what the Delphic Oracle said.”

 _Terrible and pure, an ancient creature of darkness and fire._ It wasn't anything Martin was ever likely to forget.

 “You’re literally and figuratively in the dark. I would hate to see my big brother get hurt,” Simon concluded.

Martin's heart sank. Okay, it was time to head off this line of conversation. Maybe Simon meant well, but the idea that his husband was lying to him... that he wasn't what he purported to be... Goosebumps raced up Martin's arms. He did his best to put Simon off. “I do only know Eros in the dark, Simon. You have to admit, that part is true.”

“We’ll just leave aside the terrible part,” Simon said.

“What about fiery?” Martin waggled his brows in his best Douglas imitation. Simon huffed in pretended disgust and Martin exhaled in relief.

“No details, please, ye gods. If you sure you’re all right, then?”

Martin nodded. “I am.” He hoped so. Gods, he hoped so. He glimpsed Douglas and his mother drawing closer and felt the same sense of deliverance that a drowning man would upon seeing some floating wreckage to cling to.

A small group of chattering students hope to scavenge the remains of party platters cut off his view. “Any barbecue left? Oh, great, thanks!” A large young man with beer on his breath pushed between Martin and Simon to seize a leftover sausage from a platter. “Good party!” He turned, knocking Martin off-balance. Martin yelped as his arm came in contact with the grill.

“Oh, sorry, mate!”

“Martin, are you okay?” Simon said.

Martin turned his arm over, hissing in pain. There was a large red mark showing livid on the pale underside. “It’s just a burn.”

Douglas appeared at his side, grasping his shoulder. “Come on, we need to get cold water on that right away.”

Wendy was worried. “Oh, Martin! Can I help?”

Little George appeared at Wendy’s side, patting her hip to catch her attention.

“Grandma, can you help me get my shoe? Agatha threw it into a shrub. I can't reach it.” She hesitated.

“I’ve got this,” Douglas reassured her.

She smiled, distracted.  “If you sure? What good friends you have, Martin. Yes, I’m coming, pet, don’t pull Grandma’s skirt.” She set off on her rescue mission with George tugging her hand.

Martin allowed himself to be guided into his own kitchen. Douglas turned the tap to cool and held Martin’s arm under the flow. Martin sighed in relief. “Oh, that’s good.” The burn was about the size of the heel of his palm. Douglas touched around the edges, examining it.

“No blistering. A moment longer and you’d have needed a trip to hospital.”

“It’s not that bad,” Martin said.

“You were lucky,” Douglas said. “You ought to be more careful.”

“It was just an accident. Lucky it was me and not one of the kids that got hurt.”

The corner of Douglas’ mouth lifted. “If you call getting scorched good fortune, who am I to argue?”

There was a pause. Martin was aware that Douglas’ large hand still circled his wrist. As if just noticing, Douglas loosened his grasp and drew his hand away.

“I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of what your brother and sister were saying,” Douglas said.

Martin tensed. Douglas had overheard that his husband was Eros? He hadn’t wanted anyone at MJN to know! Martin braced himself for the teasing. It didn’t come.

“And I thought to myself, ‘Even if Martin Crieff isn’t always lucky’,” Douglas nodded at the burn. “‘He is fortunate.’ Even if your circumstances are a little odd.”

“Odd,” Martin said. He grimaced. “You can say that again.”

“Well, what’s he like, your husband?”

Water ran down Martin’s arm, cooling the burn while he considered what to say. “Funny. Generous, obviously.” He waved a hand around, indicating their surroundings. Douglas leaned a hip against the counter and watched him, arms crossed. Martin bit his lip. “Kind. Really nice, actually, for a god, not that I’ve known… well, any.” His cheeks heated. “Handsome, as far as I can tell. And... he, l, l...” He couldn't finish the sentence.

Douglas raised his brows. “So in essence, he’s a paragon who happens to think you’re terrific.” His smile was twisted. “You see? Fortunate. Count your blessings - few are as lucky as you are.” He looked out the window where the purple of twilight was dimming the garden. Snatches of conversation and laughter drifted. His voice was so low that Martin almost didn’t catch it. “Look at me. All my long life, and no one to love me.”

Martin looked at Douglas’ strong profile and couldn’t think of a thing to say. Douglas spared him the trouble, breaking the spell by turning back. “Turn your arm more and you can rest it. Here.” He took Martin’s hand and positioned his arm so the wrist rested on the lip of the sink. “That should do it. It needs at least ten more minutes under the water.”

“What do you mean, no one to love you, what about -”

The door opened and Arthur entered followed by a girl. “Skip, do you mind if Clarisse uses the upstairs toilet, the other one is… Skip, what’s going on?”

Martin was suddenly aware of the warmth of Douglas’ hip pressed into his side, the size of him, his hand still holding Martin’s. He flushed and shifted away. “Douglas was helping me with some first aid. I got burned. Yes, go ahead and show her where it is, Arthur.”

Arthur wrinkled his brow. “I can help bandage you, Skip, if you like. You don't need Douglas, I love helping.” At Martin’s head shake he looked hurt but left to direct Clarisse to the second toilet.

Douglas was grinning his old smile. “No need to blush, my captain. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No, but it just looked… oh never mind.” Martin blew a breath and frowned up at his first officer. “You were being so nice, and then you had to be yourself again.”

“Who else would I be?” Douglas tipped a mocking bow. “I’ll try harder. Where’s the first aid box?”

“Cupboard by the range,” Martin said. He relaxed as Douglas made a joke and they fell back into their familiar bantering routine.

 

 

The sensation of fingers tracing the edge of the gauze taped to Martin’s arm woke him. “Hm? You’re here.”

“Mm. You smell of sunblock and grilled meat.”

Martin knuckled his eyes and scooted up the pillows. “Ugh. Sorry about that. Should have had a shower. Gods, what time is it?”

A nose nuzzled in the curls behind Martin’s ear, tickling. “I don’t mind. It’s the scent of daylight and fun. It’s an hour before dawn.”

Martin stifled a yawn. Four hours of sleep wasn’t bad. “The party was great. Wish you could’ve been there, you would have loved it.”

“It looks like it was quite the do, judging from what the cleaning crew will have to handle. What happened?”

“Arthur brought along friends.”

Eros chuckled. “I see. No, I meant your arm.” His fingers swept up and down the inside of Martin’s arm, raising goose-flesh.

“This? Just a stupid accident with the grill. Doesn’t even hurt much. I think I strained my stomach more eating potato salad.”

“And now the smell of burned meat makes more sense. Poor dear.”

Martin wrinkled his nose. Now he was more awake, the scent of grill  smoke clinging to his hair was unpleasant. “Do you want to take a shower?”

“Not tonight. Do it after I’ve left. There wouldn’t be enough time or hot water for a proper ravishing against the wall in the shower.”

“It’ll take you an hour to ravish me?”

“Don’t be silly, I’m just an old god with no stamina. You’d be ravishing me, to my complete and utter delight.”

Martin laughed. “But not tonight.”

“No. Tomorrow, at the crack of dusk.”

“Deal.”

Eros drew Martin to lay back against him, tucking his head against his shoulder. A comfortable silence settled around them. Martin’s blinks were getting longer and longer when his husband spoke.

“I do wish we had time.”

“For the shower?”

“That, too. But I meant in general. That we had more time together.”

Martin turned his head. It was useless to remind Eros that the terms of their marriage precluded Martin being with him in the daytime. He tried to make a joke. “I’d have to stop doing overnight trips. Or you’d have to lock me up in a dark house all day. That’s no way to live.”

“No, it isn’t.” Eros’ tone was brooding.

“Unless… is there a way for you to be with me in the day?" Martin brightened at the idea. "You don’t have to show me your whole self if you’d rather not, I’m not an idiot like Semele.”

“Semele died because she saw Zeus. I won’t risk that.”

“Just… appear as yourself, more or less.”

A sigh was Martin’s reply and the flicker of hope was quenched. “I'm sorry. I do call you when you’re away. And text,” Eros said.

“Not the same thing,” Martin said. He shifted away to lie on his side facing Eros, hiding his face against Eros’ bicep.

“So we are together all the time, so to speak.”

“Spiritually?”

“I’d like to think so. Your soul-spark is so bright, I’d spot it no matter where you are. You're always on my mind. And I’ll always watch over you to the best of my abilities.”

Martin pressed his forehead against firm muscle. “You’re so poetic.” He was trying hard not to be disappointed at this romantic glibness. Either you were with a person or you weren’t. He remembered the laughing couple from the party and closed his eyes. “Well, nothing short of some horrible accident would stop me flying.”

Eros lifted his arm to gather Martin tight against his side. “I know what it means to you, I wasn’t going to ask.” Martin felt the tension in Eros’ body. “But don’t talk about accidents, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Sorry.”

Eros’ rich voice was low. “I’m not ready for you to leave me, love.”

Martin's chest tightened at the endearment he couldn't return. “You know I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead. He twined an arm around Eros’ waist. Eros pressed a hard kiss to his temple.

No more was said, Martin lapsing into drowsy silence until Eros slipped from his arms. A last lingering kiss was placed upon his lips, and Martin was left to face the day on his own.

As usual.

 


	13. Vulcan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a chance to wear a dress, and Martin's incredible luck requires the intervention of gods.

 

[8th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

 

“He wants us to wear what?” Martin asked. “No, no, no. Carolyn, I’m not doing it, it’s beneath my dignity as a pilot to wear a costume during flights. I’m sure it must be against regulations as well.”

“I don’t know, Martin,” Douglas drawled. “I must say that with your luck, you’ve always seemed a bit of a redshirt.”

“I am not! Anyway, as senior pilot and captain, I would naturally get command gold,” Martin snapped.

Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Quit making a fuss, Martin. The regulations for each airline -”

“Or airdot,” Douglas chimed.

“Hush, lowly one. The uniform regs are set by the company, and as I am the CEO, owner and Alpha of our enterprising crew, I set the rules. And as Lord Leverhulme is a valued -”

“Dotty,” Martin muttered.

“Jolly old chap,” Douglas shot back.

“And repeat _customer_ , he is the chief this trip. If he wants us to wear Star Trek uniforms to set the tone for his trip to Vulcan, Alberta, then Trekkies we shall be.”

“Aren’t they called Trekkers?” Arthur piped.

Douglas laid a hand on Arthur’s arm. “No, don’t go there, Arthur. Dangerous to bring up that word with nerds about.”

“Who’s a nerd?” Arthur wanted to know.

“I'll give you a hint," Douglas said confidingly. "The one who immediately brought up the correct colour of Trek uniform for a starship captain, that's who.”

“I am not a nerd! I am a sensible, serious person, who happens not to want to wear a ridiculous polyester costume when flying an aeroplane!”

“The very definition of a Trekker. I rest my case,” Douglas said in triumph. “Besides, you wear a ridiculous hat regardless. Why not boldly go all the way?”

“I like my hat. And I only started watching it on my days off because I was bored!”

“Ah ha!” Douglas crowed. “You confess!”

“Oh, shut up. It gets lonely in the house by myself. During daylight hours, anyway.” Martin sulked.  “Why are we going to Vulcan again?”

“There’s a festival called Spock Days, with actors and Trekkers… Trekkies… Trek _fans_ and something called LARPing. The laird seemed quite keen when he made the booking.”

“Whatever happened to surfing?” Martin asked.

“Lord Leverhulme is a man of varied and short-lived interests. Be grateful you joined us after the yodelling and the Lady Gaga phases.”

“I loved those!” Arthur said.

“You would, dear heart. Anyway, following the festival, the laird is going to a ceilidh in Canmore. We pick him up in three days, and happily I’ve booked a customer to fill in the gap. Gentlemen, we are going to Canada aboard the USS GERTI. If you imagine I am looking forward to wearing a miniskirt at my age, think again. Any further complaints will be placed into a beacon, put on a transporter pad and beamed into a black hole.” Carolyn closed the folder.

“You can’t beam things into black holes,” Martin objected. “Going near one would put enormous strain on a starship. No sensible captain would try it.”

“You always go that extra parsec, my captain.” Douglas coughed something that sounded like ‘ _Trekker’_  behind his hand. Martin glared.

“I think it’s brilliant!” Arthur said. “Do I get to serve those weird smoky drinks?”

“Ah, that reminds me,” Carolyn said. “I’ve a bottle of Lord Leverhulme’s usual tipple. But just for this trip, you can serve him green stuff.”

“Brilliant!” Arthur beamed and began working open the box from the costume rental company.

“But Carolyn,” Martin whispered. “Won’t Arthur be crushed that there’s no such as Alderbaran whiskey?” Douglas sniggered at Martin’s easy use of Trek drink names.

“No,” she whispered back. “Because I’ll add a few drops of food dye to his glass. Ta da - green whiskey, sans smoke. I don’t trust any of you with dry ice after that escapade with the toilet.”

“Here’s yours, Skip,” Arthur said, passing Martin a yellow tunic. Martin grimaced but stroked the command stripes with satisfaction. “This one must be yours, Douglas, it’s the biggest.” Douglas dared anyone to comment with a lifted brow as he took the red and black jumpsuit.

“But that one’s Next Generation and mine’s Original Series!” Martin said.

“Martin, really, shut up,” Carolyn said.

“Mum, I think there’s a mistake,” Arthur said as he pulled out the last two costumes. “These are both dresses.”

“Ah, no, you’re wrong, Arthur,” Martin said with the pedantry he used when quoting the flight manual. “These are skirt pants, or skants -”

‘Skants?’ Douglas mouthed at Carolyn who rolled her eyes.

“- and they appeared in the Next Generation show. Both men and women wore them as an example of the total equality of the sexes. So one of them’s yours, Arthur.”

“I get to wear a skirt? Like a Scotsman in the future?” Arthur held up his uniform against him. “Brilliant! Lord Leverhulme is going to love this flight! Can I wear these Spock ears?”

"Do as you please," Carolyn sighed.

"What do you want to be, Arthur? Science officer? Catering?” Martin asked.

“Oh, I want to be an engineer! Like Scotty! Because Lord Leverhulme is Scottish!” Arthur said. “Ah’m sorrrry, captin, ah cannae make ‘er go enny fasterrrr, she jus’ woan tek it!” The rolled R’s sounded like a 50cc moped fuelled by spittle. Martin winced.

“Good gods, Arthur,” Douglas said. “That was a stunning imitation.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely. Miles better than even your Australian accent. The laird will be impressed with a skant-ulous drink-serving engineer from planet Vulcan by way of Glasgow.”

“Not up to your usual standard, Douglas,” Carolyn said as Martin choked over the visual provided by Douglas’ description. “But only because you know the laird will love it.”

“What’s Mum’s rank, then?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Your mother, famed for her customer service skills? Ship’s counsellor, obviously,” Douglas replied.

“Douglas.” Carolyn’s voice held promissory retribution. “You know we need more promotional photos for our website.”

“I am duly rebuked, _Admiral_ Knapp-Shappey.”

“That’s more like it!” Carolyn looked down her nose at her smirking first officer.

“If she’s an Admiral,” Martin objected, “then she properly needs three stripes. Oh, and a collar bar with two pips.”

“Martin. Really. Shut up.”

 

 

[9th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

 

“Good morning! This is First Officer Douglas Richardson, of the Federation Airship GERTI. On behalf of MJN, or as we are known in our home quadrant, Microquasar Jupiter… _Neutron_ , we’d like to welcome our distinguished ambassador of Scottish culture, Lord Leverhulme. I am joined by my captain, Martin Crieff who will be in command as we navigate our nine-hour voyage to that final frontier, the mysterious and pine-tree bedecked planet of Canada. We wish Lord Leverhulme well on his away-mission to Vulcan, and hope that his action role-playing lives long and prospers. All crew to their duty stations, please, and prepare for the jump to warp. Engage.”

“Douglas! _The_ _captain_ says ‘engage!’”

 

 

[11th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

 

Martin swirled the ice in his soft drink. “Thank gods Carolyn isn't requiring us to wear Fleet uniforms on this leg. Carl’s witticisms when we left were bad enough.” He covered a small burp with his mouth. His lunch of fettuccine alfredo wasn’t sitting very well with him. His stomach had been aching on and off for several days. Martin hoped he wasn’t coming down with something.

Douglas smiled and shook his head. “I find the best way to deal with the odd customers MJN picks up is to relax and play along.”

Martin snorted. “Easy for you.” The First Officer’s Starfleet jumpsuit had been less than flattering to Douglas’ heavy body, yet he carried it off with his usual insouciance. It was unfair, the way the man could pull off anything. Martin’s own captain’s gold had been swimming on him.

They were lingering in a restaurant in Winnipeg’s James Armstrong Richardson Airport, waiting for their next customers, a family of three. The girl was an aspiring figure skater and her fond mother had arranged for lessons at the prestigious Royal Winnipeg Ballet School to improve her grace. MJN was chartered to take them to Vancouver for a figure skating competition.

“I wonder why there’s a Royal Ballet in Winnipeg, of all places? I suppose with miles of prairie around, it could be quite meditative if one wants to focus on one’s studies. What do you think?” Martin looked up to find Douglas was paying him scant heed, instead watching a young man. The stranger slumped at a nearby table staring at a phone in his hand. Good-looking, Martin thought, though the man’s features were strained.

The man pressed a few buttons in a reply to a text. Turning the phone face-down on the table, he scrubbed hands over his face, the corners of his mouth drawn in pain. _Oh._ Martin winced. He knew that look. He’d worn that look. How rotten. People that broke up with boyfriends via text should be drowned in the Acheron.

“Sorry, just a moment, Martin,” Douglas said. He stood and straightened his uniform, brushed a finger over his brow and placed his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. “No, I tell a lie. I may be a while.”

“Douglas, tell me you’re not going to -” Martin began but Douglas was already striding towards the man’s table. “We don’t have time for this,” Martin said in a louder voice. Fuming, he watched as Douglas seated himself next to the young man. Unbelievable. The poor chap had been dumped, was emotionally vulnerable. But there went Douglas, all handsome confidence and ready to pull. _He’ll do it, too, the smooth bastard_. Martin ignored the twinge of envy in his chest.

This was low. Martin ought to do something, interrupt whatever pick-up line Douglas was pouring into the stunned man’s ear. He could state some emergency and drag him off. But what if Douglas refused to come? What to do, what to do. Martin dithered. Right. He’d get the bill first, then rescue Douglas’ intended conquest.

Martin tried to hail a passing server. “Miss. Miss!” The woman breezed by. Martin scowled. Douglas never had problems getting wait staff's attention. Or taxis. Douglas was unfairly blessed.

 _Well, Douglas isn’t married to a god,_ Martin thought vindictively. Then again, maybe Douglas had never wanted to be. That would be just like him, spurning all offers to keep himself free for the sake of humanity’s love lives. Martin drummed his fingers.

Douglas now had his elbows on the table, posture relaxed and open as he leaned in and spoke in low tones to the man. The man, Martin noted with disgust, was transfixed. Douglas said something in a questioning tone and the man dropped his eyes, shaking his head. Good. But Douglas spoke again and the young man lifted his face, expression bewildered.

 _Ye gods, I can’t watch this!_ Martin waved again for the server, but Douglas lifted a languid hand to summon her. She passed Martin’s table and stood by Douglas, pen poised. Douglas gestured introductions and stood. He bent, spoke something in the server’s ear with a hand laid on her elbow, clapped the man on the shoulder and turned away.

“The bill will be here in about, oh, I’d say five minutes,” Douglas said, seating himself. “They need a little time, I think. Ah, yes, there they go.”

Martin’s eyes swivelled back and forth between his first officer and the pair. The man and woman were talking, both smiling. There was an indefinable something hanging in the air between. And yes, out came the man’s phone as he took the woman’s number.

“What was that?” Martin said.

“What was what? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Martin.” Douglas was pulling out his wallet.

“That, all that! You were… and then you just come back here and pretend nothing’s happened?”

“Oh, did you think I was going to prey on that bereft young man? Really, Martin. I am saddened by your low opinion of me.”

“What did you do?” Martin pressed.

Douglas sat back and looked at him, dark eyes amused. “Well, if you must have it laid out, I saw he was looking miserable. Alex there explained his girlfriend had just broken up with him - not a surprise to Alex, but painful nonetheless. Now, Sharon…”

“Sharon?” Martin said.

“Our server, Sharon. It’s on her name tag, do pay attention, Martin. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed but she had bare hands. Not just bare, but with a pale ring on her right hand indicating where a ring had been worn for some time but was recently removed. Broken engagement, bound to upset anyone and make them less then focussed on their tasks. You did complain about how our water glasses went un-refilled. So?”

Martin was gaping. “You saw all that? What are you, Sherlock bloody Holmes? And so you just... set them up?”

“I may have facilitated a little, yes. But both were primed and ready to move on to greener pastures. I saw the opportunity, and old romantic that I am, I took it.” Douglas shrugged as if the matter were of little import.

“My gods.” Martin looked up as Sharon came to their table, beaming as she swept up the money Douglas had laid down. “You soppy old sod. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Douglas tapped his lip. “Wait a minute. I’ve almost got it. No, sorry, lost it again.” He smiled his easy smile. “Ah, there’s Arthur. Ready, my captain?”

Martin cast one last glance at Alex, who was already composing what was most likely his first text to Sharon, all unhappiness wiped away. “You and Arthur are both weirdly good at setting people up. How is that?”

Douglas shrugged. “I’m old and I like to think that I’ve been a jouster in the lists of love enough enough times to know a thing or two. Arthur, now, I’m not sure. But as you know, he does love to help.”

“Help what?” Arthur said, joining them.

“Matchmaking,” Martin said.

“I love that!” Arthur said. "There’s nothing better than getting people together. It’s a bit like being a god of love! If only..." He faltered. "I sometimes wish Mum and Dad could have been more blessed, but Dad was... he was... He - he was..."

Martin watched Arthur flounder. Douglas nudged him. "I think Arthur's broken." Martin scowled at him.

"Not... nice?" he offered. Arthur blinked.

"Yeah. That. So, I guess Mum's better off." He brightened again. "I keep trying to find someone for her, but no luck yet. Still, I introduced Roddy to Nigel, and Iris to Alfred - they’re getting married next summer. And Kate to Ioannus. Oh, and the Bynder twins sent me a card, they’re having fun with Galen, isn’t that great? And…”

Martin listened in faint disbelief Arthur continued his list of matchmaking triumphs all the way to G-ERTI. Douglas rolled his eyes but only grinned when Martin mouthed, ' _What in the heavens?'_ at him.

 

 

“Everything all right, my captain?” Douglas asked. “You do seem to be using the toilet a lot for such a short flight.” They were coming up on the Rockies with their exciting chances of flying into a mountain. Well, not actually. Douglas was in control, though to give the boy his due, Martin’s flying ability and confidence had improved enormously.

Martin flopped into his seat and buckled in. He was pale and sweating slightly. “I think I’m starting to get lactose sensitivity. I was fine until I had that Alfredo.”

“Oh dear. Do you happen to carry extra loo roll in your flight bag? It’d be terrible if the rest of us went without. Oh, I see by your face you do! For what emergencies -”

“Douglas! Change the subject, please!”

“Fine, but your milky condition has given me an idea. Cheesy movies - film titles with one word replaced by a kind of cheese,” Douglas said.

Martin looked over, blinking. “Uh… what?”

“East of Edam,” Douglas began.

“Oh! Errr….”  Martin’s brows drew together.

“Lawrence of Asiago.” Ah, but it was such a pleasure to watch Martin’s cogitations. Douglas’ mouth quirked. Martin never disappointed, making the best faces when frustrated, annoyed, angry, snippy, confused, happy...

“Umm…”

Douglas wasn’t quite sure which of Martin’s expression was the most humourous. Though the way Martin’s head tilted up as if hoping to read inspiration from the flight deck ceiling was Douglas’ current favourite. He waited a beat. “A Tale of Two Chevres.”

“Uh... Great Emmental?”

Douglas pursed his lips. “Well, I see how that led in from mine, but… well, fine, you can have that one. Quesoblanca.”

Martin looked confused before his expression cleared. “Queso- oh ha! Yes, that's a good one!” His brow creased. “Uh… “

Really, Douglas could do this all day. Well, it was still Douglas favourite pastime on long flight to tease Martin. Sometimes all day. Martin made it so easy, though since that last trip to Spain, Douglas had been more careful not to let his teasing get too sharp. “Goudafellows.”

Predictably, Martin began to get annoyed. “Douglas! Just - give me a minute...! Wait... oh, uh... Pride and Pepperjack!”

“Oh, nice one! Sense and Saanenkaese.”

“Saanen-what? Is that really a cheese, or are you making that up?”

As was the typical Martin pattern in these word games, Martin grew suspicious. Next would come the accusations of cheating. What fun! Douglas rolled his eyes at Martin and delivered the answer in a deft witticism. “Yes, Virginia, There Is a Saanenkaese.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Martin dropped his head back against his seat.

“Hera save us from all Tiger Mothers,” Carolyn said, bursting into the flight deck. “If I have to listen to one more piece of Mrs Lee’s advice ‘from one parent to another’, I’ll skin her vicious pelt and let her daughter parachute to freedom.”

“This is extraordinary. A passenger, sharpening her privileged claws on our crew? How unprecedented,” Douglas jibed. “And interesting. I would have thought the teen daughter would be the demanding prima donna type.”

“She’s certainly a princess in her mother’s eyes. Mrs Lee happens to have a medieval sensibility about these things.”

“Grooming, training, perchance arranged marriages? Charming.”

“Poor kid. What about Mr Lee?” Martin asked. He covered a burp with the back of his hand.

“May as well be non-existent. Reminds me of my sister Ruth’s ghost of a spouse. Nervous flier,” Carolyn said. “Meanwhile, escape was not the only reason I came to grace you with my presence. Martin, what is the matter with you? You’ve been wearing a path in my just-replaced carpet going to the toilet and back. It doesn’t inspire Mrs Lee with confidence, as I’ve _also_ been told.”

“Oooh, can I tell her?” Douglas said.

“Douglas,” Martin said, but his tone was weak annoyance. Douglas inspected him. Martin’s normally pale complexion was white, his head lolling against the back of his seat. “I think I may have food poisoning. Or lactose sensitivty.”

“You do look positively whey-faced. Almost green. Quite curdled,” Douglas said.

“Douglas, please stop talking about cheese, I don’t want to play now!”

“Hm.” Carolyn laid a hand against Martin’s head. “Warm. You may be coming down with an epic cold or the ‘flu. Martin, I forbid you to vomit on our passengers or the new carpet.”

“No.” Martin’s protest was that of a cranky child’s. “We’ve got to fly Lord Leverhulme back. I’m sure it’s just something I ate. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I hope so, but in the meantime, Douglas will pull his weight for once and do the flying. Douglas?”

“Your wish is my command.” Douglas noted that Martin didn’t even protest beyond a grimace. Hm. Well, situations like this were why there was an informal rule about each pilot having different meals.

“Mum?” It was Arthur on the intercom from the aft of the cabin. “Mrs Lee… “

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Carolyn snapped.

Martin had a hand over his mouth and was breathing hard through his nose. “Oh. Oh gods, my stomach really hurts. I think… I…” He swallowed repeatedly, flung off his harness and bolted.

Douglas shared a look with Carolyn. “Well.”

Carolyn sighed. “I suppose you have control. Do what you do best and take care of things at the pointy end.”

The intercom spoke again. “Mum, Mrs Lee wants to know about air circulation, ‘cause if Skip is really ill, she doesn’t want her daughter catching it before her skating competition.”

Carolyn’s eyes closed a moment as she pondered vengeful thoughts. “I’ll handle her, Arthur. _Code blue_.”

“Hiding in the back right away, Mum!”

“Once more into the breach,” Douglas joked.

“Really, you lazy pilots have it easy. _Clients_ ,” Carolyn hissed in the same tone some might say, ‘tax investigations.’ She straightened her shoulders and sailed out.

Douglas adjusted their course with a minute adjustment. It was boring being by himself. He began to amuse himself by coming up with more cheesy films. _The Boursin Identity. The Maltese Fontina. The Gruyere of Wrath. Life of Brie. To Kill a Marscapo_ -

His mental maunderings were interrupted by the intercom. “Douglas? Douglas! Are you up there?”

Douglas flipped the switch. “I suppose I must be in the flight deck, as Martin is in back and no one else is available to fly the plane, Arthur.”

The sarcasm was lost on Arthur. “But can you come back here? Like, right away?”

“Can I leave the flight deck… and let G-ERTI fly herself? Over the Rockies?” Douglas resisted the urge to rub his forehead. “ _No,_ Arthur, I can’t.”

“But Mum’s busy with Mrs Lee! And there’s no one else! And I don’t know what to do!”

“That is so frequently the case, Arthur, but if you will explain what the problem is, perhaps I can tell you!” Douglas throttled back the surge of impatience.

“It’s Skip, Douglas. He’s sick.”

“I know that. Tummy ache, the poor ickle thing.”

“No, I mean, he’s really sick! He came out of the toilet all wobbly and then he just sort of folded up on the floor. He’s hugging himself hard and… and I don’t think he knows it but he’s crying, Douglas.”

“What?” Douglas was stunned.

“I mean, he’s not making much noise but his eyes are all wet and red, and he’s biting his lip and won’t talk to me and I don’t know what to do!”

Douglas ignored the way pit of his stomach dropped and took command of the situation. “Arthur. Listen to me. I need you to follow my instructions carefully. Can you do that?”

“I think so.” Arthur sounded nervous.

“No, not _think_ -” Douglas stopped himself. “Arthur, you are the best person at helping that I know. And you are going to be a great help now, right?”

“Okay!”

“Good. This is what’s going to happen - I need to talk to Kamloops Tower and let them know there’s a medical emergency. I’ll be put in contact with a medical professional who will do a consultation. But because the radio can’t connect with the intercom, he will ask me questions, and I will relay them to you. Do you understand?”

“Um. They will talk to the radio, and… “

Douglas knew Arthur was confused already. “Just pretend I’m a doctor. I’ll ask the questions. Okay? Say it. ‘Douglas is a doctor,’”

“Douglas is a doctor,” Arthur parroted. “You get to be a doctor? Brilliant. Because Skip really doesn’t look very good, and I think we need one right now.” His voice quavered.

“We do,” Douglas said grimly. “Hang on. Stay with Martin until I call.”

Douglas had a good guess as to the probable cause of Martin’s collapse, and his reasoning was confirmed by the doctor as they progressed through the questions.

“Yes, he has a slight fever. Yes, diarrhea and vomiting. Arthur, if Martin won’t or can’t speak get him to nod or shake his head. Did his stomach bother him within the last week? Yes. Did he feel bloated or gassy? Yes. Is the pain localised in his lower right abdomen? No, abdomen, _abdo_ \- tummy. Yes. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?”

“Douglas, I don’t think he can answer any more questions,” came Arthur’s strained voice. “His eyes are closed now. He’s biting his fist and rocking. And making noises. Like a small sad cat. Oh, Skip. Don’t worry. Douglas will fix it, he fixes everything.”

Douglas only wished he could, with a savage desire previously unknown to him in all his life. “Arthur, stay with him.” Douglas flicked on the cabin address system. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. This is First Officer Richardson speaking. I regret to inform you that our flight today must be terminated before we reach our final destination. There is a medical emergency on-board requiring immediate attention, and we will shortly be landing in Kamloops. Thank you.”

Douglas fancied he could hear Carolyn’s squawked “What?!” through the flight deck door.

 

 

Mrs Lee snagged Carolyn’s arm as she hurried to the aft of the plane. “Excuse me, but why are we landing?”

“The captain has probable appendicitis. It’s life-threatening if not treated immediately.” Carolyn tried to draw her arm away and pasted on a cheery smile. “We at MJN apologise for the delay in your travel plans. Alternative transportation will be arranged.”

The wraith-like Mr Lee came to life. “What? The captain’s ill?”

Mrs Lee sniffed. “Will we get priority landing and de-planing? Christina’s competition is very important. The reason we chose your little airline was with the understanding that there be no delays.”

“Gods, Mom,” came from the fifteen-year old girl curled up in her seat with a phone game. The teen popped in her earbuds and turned up her music with a commiserating look at Carolyn.

“My pilot is _dyi_ … delighted to tell you that we indeed have priority landing, due to the medical emergency.” Carolyn’s heavy emphasis on the latter was missed by Mrs Lee but not by her husband.

“My gods, this is terrible! Can the other pilot fly by himself? He’s not a captain!” Mr Lee was starting to sweat.

Carolyn _so_ wished her pilots could hear this. Douglas would smoulder and Martin certainly needed perking up just now. “First Officer Richardson was a senior pilot with Air Britannia for twenty years before joining MJN. I can assure you, sir -”

“Senior, and he’s still a first officer? Oh my gods. He’s old, I saw him. Is he fit to fly by himself? Maybe he’ll have a heart attack.” Mr Lee shook a pill from a bottle and downed it. “We’re all going to die!”

Carolyn would have laughed at this description of Douglas were she not resisting the urge to strangle both Lee parents with their pillows. “Die? No, not at all.” Carolyn trilled a laugh and gave Mr Lee a meaningful stare. “But my pilot, on the other hand, might.” Mr Lee shrank back in his seat.

“You should have taken the Xanax an hour before the flight, dear,” Mrs Lee said in the acid sweet tones of those who always know best. Christina hunched further down in her seat and turned up the volume. Pop music trickled in tinny beats. “And you, Christina, should be going over the music for your routine!” Mrs Lee threw up her hands. “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

“You _terrible_ … your terrible situation would arouse sympathy in all but the most hardened of hearts,” Carolyn said. “Excuse me, please.”

 

 

Arthur patted Martin’s hand while Carolyn looked her pilot over and covered him with a blanket. “Martin, if you think playing the ‘I’ve a ruptured appendix’ card will induce me to give you a pay raise, I must say, not on your life.”

Martin snorted a laugh and squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach muscles protested. “Black humour,” he said in a dry voice. “Perfect.” The agony was playing tricks with his vision, filling the inside of his eyelids with purple dots.

“We’ll be landing in about twenty five minutes. Will you be all right?”

“I - I don’t know.” Martin thought of Eros. After all the times his husband had expressed his worries over Martin’s safety, how would he take it if Martin died? Martin breathed shallowly through another stabbing pain.

Should he leave a message? What would he say? ‘I’m sorry, but your husband is so unlucky that even my body seems to hate me? Oh, and I’m not sorry we got married any more. At all. The opposite, now. Okay, so maybe that’s a deathbed epiphany. But... but I didn't know. Sorry. Sorry. And please don’t smite MJN’s crew, they did all they could. They’re my friends.’

A wave of pain gripped, twisted his guts and crested, blinding in its intensity. Martin found his fist was in his mouth again as he tried not to scream. _Oh gods. Eros. Iris . Anyone. Help me, help me, where are you?_ Martin had never wanted anyone to be with him as much as he wished for his husband, his soft hands and rich voice murmuring sweet nonsense. His throat ached. _Eros ._

“Skip! Skip, please don’t, it’ll be okay!” Arthur sounded heartbroken.

Martin heard Carolyn talking in a low voice into the intercom. “No, he’s very bad. I should bloody hope they have an ambulance ready. Oh, Hera’s love, that obnoxious woman is ringing the service bell. Adestria, save me from murder. Arthur, just stay with Martin while I deal with Mrs Lee.” She squared her shoulders and marched, ready to crush her foe with politeness.

“Um. Um. Okay. I know. I’ll sing you a song like it’s your bedtime. You’ll like that, won’t you?” Arthur settled himself and started singing in a shaky voice, “Do you still like me, can you still see me? Noah Nifty Free!”

Martin didn’t hear him, locked in a world of his own.

 

 

Douglas swore under his breath as he switched off the intercom. Martin was worse and knowing his luck, the appendix was well and truly burst and spreading its poison. It was supposed to cause unbelievable agony. This? This was beyond Martin’s usual bad fortune and leapfrogging into unfair en route to cursed. People died from appendicitis and its complications.

Well, Douglas could do something about that. Though in doing it, it would be the first time in his life he'd ever performed this particular action. Douglas bared his teeth. _Skies,_ he hated asking for help.

He began twisting the knobs of the high frequency radio, lips moving. _I pray… I entreat… A little help here… Need a favour… can repay. Probably. I humbly… no I plainly ask… are any of you sods listening or not!_

The radio crackled with a blue white spark and the display went dead. “Grand,” Douglas muttered. “Et tu, G-ERTI.”

“And you, as well,” an unearthly voice said, distorted by the speakers. “Hermes speaking. And who could this be? Goodness gracious me, is it - can it be? This is Douglas Richardson? _The_ Douglas Richardson? Actually condescending to pray? Just - _wow._ Can I have a minute to catch my breath?”

“Stow it, fly-boy,” Douglas said. “I don’t have time for what passes as your wit. I’ve done the pretty, I’ve made my prayer sincere. Just get me through to the five sisters. Now.”

“Rude!” The offended tone warbled weirdly through the broken radio.

“My deepest and humblest apologies,” Douglas said. “Right now. If you please.”

“Oh, _fine_. But remember - you’ll owe me, Douglas Richardson.”

The radio chattered, and a sleepy female asked, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Douglas Richardson. Have I reached the goddesses of healing? I -”

“Douglas _Richardson_? Oh, blessed _herbs._ Iaso! Panacea! Wake up, you’ll never guess who’s calling!”

“Who?”

“Douglas! Richardson! Him! Flies planes with Martin Crieff, _the_ Martin Crieff?”

“Aeglaea, I swear if you don’t stop shrieking… “

“Hera’s teats, you maggot-brain. You _know_. Martin Crieff. Little red-head? Married to our own sweet god of _lurve_?”

“Ooooh. Him! So that's his... coworker? Ri-ight... But why is he calling us at this forsaken hour?” The voice was querulous.

“Ladies, if I could just interject,” Douglas said. “I have a problem. Or, rather, Martin does. The lad has raging appendicitis.”

“Sounds like it’s a job for Panacea or Aceso’s skill sets,” Aeglaea said. “But where are you? You know we’ll have to get Zeph to waft us to you.”

“Ah,” Douglas said. “This is the tricky part. We’re currently in the air over the Rocky Mountains. In Canada.”

There was a pause. “Oh, you’re not asking… are you?”

“Martin’s not in any condition to do the asking. I’m doing it on his behalf. He needs help. If he cocks up his toes, his husband will be distraught, to say the least. I can’t let that happen.” Douglas' shoulders were tense as time trickled by. He thought of Martin, suffering by the toilet with only Arthur to keep him company.

There was a crackle as five goddesses giggled. “No, sorry, of course you can’t,” Aeglaea said, composing herself. “What a good _coworker_ you are.”

 _My coworker? This is Martin!_ Douglas bit back a snarl and smoothed his voice. “You must also consider - if you assist Martin, his spouse will be most grateful.”

“How grateful? Ow! Don’t pinch me!”

“Forget that, how grateful would _Douglas Richardson_ be?” Hygeia said with heavy innuendo. "Circe still vilifies you as often as she praises you, you know."

“You’re wicked, sis.”

“Forgive me, but not that grateful, though I am pleased my reputation still stands,” Douglas said. “Will you help?”

“Yeah, sure.” There was a brief pause and the connection crackled. “Whoa, someone besides you is pulling for Martin in a big way. Okay, let’s get to work! Got a god-vessel? How about ointment? Any old goo will work. Wow, that’s quite an entreaty tickling me, Martin must be in a really bad way. Hm. Make that a tub of ointment, we’ll need to cover a big area. Panacea! You’re up, girl!”

 

 

The intercom buzzed. Arthur let go of Martin’s hand and stood, wiping his eyes. “Douglas? Are we landing? Skip won’t open his eyes and it’s scaring me.”

“Just about there. Arthur, this is going to be a little odd. Here’s how you can make Martin better. You are going to be the biggest help in the world.”

Arthur listened. He got the jar from his bag of purchases in Winnipeg and sat next to Martin again. “Skip, I’m going to undo your shirt, okay?” Arthur set to work when a tingle ran through his arms. The sensation grew until his arms felt all shivery-wobbly, but in a good way. He held up his hands. They glowed faintly green, sparks drifting from his fingertips. “Oh _, brilliant!_ ”

 

 

Martin woke to medics shining lights in his eyes and prodding him. “Sir? Can you tell me your name?”

Martin licked swollen lips. “Martin Crieff. I’m… I’m captain of this plane.” He sniffed. There was a familiar but overpowering aroma. He lifted his head to look down at his uncovered torso, then up at a madly grinning Arthur Shappey.

“Why am I covered in peanut butter?”

 


	14. Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of MJN visit Martin in hospital. Douglas gives him some advice. Godly visitations occur.

The medics had insisted Martin go to the hospital, putting little faith in the miracle of the peanut butter. A battery of x-rays, blood tests and threats of scoping later, it was agreed that Martin’s appendix appeared normal. A Native doctor rested her hand on his stomach, eyes closed. When she opened them again, she sniffed her hand, grinning. Martin flushed. Why couldn’t Arthur have used… well, anything else? “Peanut butter. I can’t wait to tell the elders this story. Well, belief is the thing. You’re fine, Mr Crieff. But if it’s all right with you, we’d like to keep you a bit longer for observation. From the sounds of it, you were full of infection.”

Martin sighed his agreement, hoping Carolyn wouldn’t object. The doctor busied herself settling Martin in a bed and drawing a privacy curtain, singing an odd chant under her breath as she moved. Carolyn and Arthur bustled in. Carolyn restrained Arthur from throwing himself at Martin with a hand on his shoulder. “No hugs. Martin has just had his insides repaired - heavens know how it was managed.”

“It was me, I did it!” Arthur said. “Oh, I wish you could have seen it, Skip! My hands were glowing all green! Like radioactive things in the old movies. And when I started smearing the peanut butter on your tum, _that_ started glowing. And you sort of sighed and went limp. Not dead-limp, more like sleeping-limp. It was brilliant! I can’t wait to make a proper offering to Panacea.”

Martin thrust away the lurid mental image of Arthur rubbing nuclear sandwich spread on his skin. “An intervention? Did you pray?”

“I confess I did,” Carolyn said. “You gave me a right bad turn, Martin Crieff, and I’ll thank you not to collapse on my aeroplane again." She sniffed pretend disdain. "I’ll let it pass this once - the cost of the diversion was balanced by getting rid of that horrible Mrs Lee.”

“Sorry,” Martin said, but was touched by the show of concern from his sarcastic and brusque boss.

“I prayed heaps, Skip. It must have worked, because you’re all right!” Arthur’s smile was ear-wide.

Martin smiled and extended his hand to grasp Arthur's. “Thank you. You saved my life. You’re a hero, Arthur Shappey.”

Arthur’s expression rivalled the sun. “Oh, brilliant!”

 

 

 

 

[11th of  Metageitnion passing into the 12th at sunset, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

 

Martin blinked awake. He flexed his tingling hand. Paper rustled and he turned his head. Douglas sat at his bedside with a battered copy of Maclean’s. “Douglas? What time is it?” Martin pushed himself upright, grimacing at the ache in his muscles. Gods, he must have really been knotted up, what with the whole appendix bursting and unspeakable agony. “Uh. Why are you here? Can I leave?”

“Four very good questions," Douglas said, laying the magazine aside. "In order, yes - c’est moi, c’est moi, t’is I. The time is seven thirty. I’m here to collect you. And yes, the lovely doctor waved her hands over you while you were sleeping. A clean bill of health. You’re good to go.”

Martin swung his legs out of bed. “Tell me we have a hotel. I’m dying to take a shower.”

“Sir is certainly most charmingly redolent of peanut butter.” Douglas passed him his shoes and socks. “We’re booked into a motel near the airport, and I imagine the mechanics will have replaced the high frequency radio by now. It’s just a short jaunt to Canmore to pick up Lord Leverhulme, so -”

“The radio? What happened to it?” Martin looked up from tying his shoes.

Douglas shrugged. “It blew just after the medical consultation but before landing. Luckily they were expecting us. No harm, no foul.”

Martin shuddered. “Losing the HF radio during a medical emergency could have been quite bad. Well, if it hadn’t been for Arthur, I suppose.”

“Yes, the miraculous Arthur, purveyor of the panacea of peanuts.”

“I still can’t believe Arthur managed a direct intervention! Do you know how rare that is?” Martin said. “I mean, we’re really far from the Olympian realm. This is Thunderbird territory. I don’t understand how Arthur… “ Martin’s voice trailed off. Douglas was wearing that bland face that said there was more to the story. “He didn’t. Did he? Douglas… did you do something?”

“Why would you ask that?” And there was that tone as well, the uninterested one that Douglas put on when covering up some scheme. “We were only twenty minutes out from Kamloops when the miracle happened. Totally unnecessary, if you ask me. You would have been in an ambulance and in the hospital in no time.”

“Yes…” Martin said. “Though I’m glad it happened. I almost wanted to die to make the pain stop. But Douglas, how would a prayer sent up in the middle of the Canadian wilderness reach Panacea?”

Douglas shrugged as if uninterested. _Oh, there was something there!_ Martin knew it. He pressed on. “A prayer like that would have to be picked up by a messenger. And… and it couldn’t have been a native god. The intervention happened too fast to have lots of intermediaries passing messages along." Douglas sighed as if the whole topic were terribly boring but Martin knew he was onto something. "You radioed for a doctor... and the radio blew, but our gods heard anyway? It had to be Hermes carrying the signal. You did it, didn’t you? You contacted him, you called for an intervention!”

Douglas grimaced. “Fine, Miss Marple, you found me out. But in my defense, I didn’t fancy having a talking-to from your husband about letting you die or similar.”

“But Douglas.” Martin was flabbergasted. “You don’t pray. Never. You told me.”

Douglas looked embarrassed. “Well. You were gnawing your own hand off, Carolyn was sharpening knives to sacrifice a passenger, and Arthur was in tears. What’s a poor first officer to do?”

“You didn’t have to, though. You just said.” Martin felt a warm spring of amazement rising in his chest. “You did it anyway. You _like_ me.”

Douglas looked offended. “Like you? Perish the thought. You are a wet-behind-the-ears pilot with delusions of grandeur imparted by an over-decorated captain’s hat. Rules-bound, a poor loser at word games -”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin was grinning. “Thank you.” A thought occurred and his face sobered. “But… why would Hermes even listen to you? What with your usual not-praying.”

“Martin, you’re the husband of a _god_ ,” Douglas said. “Do you really think you're just flying around under the radar? I’m sure most of the pantheons are watching you with covert interest.”

Martin opened his mouth, worry creasing his forehead but Douglas spoke before he could.

“Do you think your husband will give us humble mortals at MJN a favour for helping out? Not that I need it, but my rampant-self interest is rearing its head.”

“Douglas!” Martin screwed up his face. “I don’t know.”

“Crass, I suppose.”

Martin stood and brushed at the creases in his trousers. He lifted his eyes to Douglas’ face. “I can’t speak for him. But… but Douglas. I can thank you. I do.” Martin held out his hand. Douglas took it. “I know you think I didn’t need an intervention, or maybe you’re hoping get something out of it. But I want to thank you for what you did. For me. I, um. I appreciate it.”

Douglas’ lips parted before curving into a faint smile. “I’m glad you’re well, my captain.” The large hand engulfing Martin’s tightened. Martin felt heat rise into his cheeks. But Douglas only shook his hand and dropped it.

“If you’re up for it, it looks like there’s a decent steakhouse near our motel. It’s cowboy country, so it ought to be good. Perhaps there’ll be Rocky Mountain oysters.”

“Mountain oysters?” Martin followed Douglas out.

“Calf testicles, done up in breading, with a piquant dipping sauce.” Douglas made a smacking noise as Martin gagged.

“What’s with you and food made from sex bits? Honestly, Douglas!”

“A married man _might_ guess.”

“Oh, ye gods, shut up!”

“Oh, by the by. You’d better drop your husband a line, now you’re finally awake. Though I’m quite sure he’s heard by now,” Douglas remarked.

Martin’s embarrassed flush faded so quickly he felt light-head. His steps faltered. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

Douglas’ smile was half-mischief, half-commiseration. “Indeed.”

“What do I do, Douglas? Oh, ye gods, he's going to be so... I don't know!” Dread began creeping over him. Would Eros be angry? Frantic? Sad he hadn't called earlier? Or worse - would he be all three? “Do I call him now, or... should I try and eat first, I don't know, I'm not that hungry now but I might go off dinner entirely if I call before and - and, what do you mean, finally awake? Have you been _watching me?_ ”

“Martin, calm down. You sound like a teenager scared of telling his mum he scratched the paint on her new car.”

Martin fumed while Douglas spoke to the front desk and took some papers. He opened his mouth to tell Douglas off but Douglas only passed him the pen. “Sign. And while you are doing so, consider employing your mind constructively instead of spinning your tyres. In his place, how would you feel if you heard second- or third hand your spouse had wound up in the hospital?”

“I'm fine now!” Martin said under his breath. He flinched. “Ow! Don't flick my ear.”

“I will if you persist in acting like a child. I may anyway, my captain, because that was rather satisfying.” Martin flushed under the amused smile of the desk clerk. Douglas continued in a more serious tone, “You're fine now. You were very much _not_ fine a few hours ago. Flight abandoned, ambulances arranged, goddesses invoked. He’s probably in a right state. A phone call is the least you can do since he’s not here to wrap you up in manly arms.”

Douglas extracted the pen from Martin’s fingers and handed it back to the desk clerk with a sweet smile. She flushed. Douglas continued, “He’ll understand that you couldn’t call earlier. And you’d better call sooner rather than later. He won’t be happy if you decide to wait until after a jolly slap-up steak dinner with friends.” _You berk_ , his expression said.

Dazed at this lecture on sensitivity towards others’ feelings - from Douglas, of all people, Martin let himself be turned by the elbow and guided to the door. “You really think he's that worried?” Martin asked. Douglas rolled his eyes but granted him a faint smile.

“If I were him? Yes.”

The answer was so definitive that it jolted Martin. _If Douglas cared that much for his fabled ex-wives, I'm amazed they ever let him get away_. Martin followed Douglas out into the rich golden light of the sun as it disappeared behind the mountains. He felt small. “You're right. I'm... just a bit shaken up. Not thinking.”

Douglas lifted a knowing brow, brown eyes lit amber-bright by the slanting rays of sunset. “No, you’re thinking, but use your heart, not your head, Martin."

Martin's skin felt hot under that gaze. His lips parted but he had to cough before he could speak. “Is this you being a soppy romantic again?”

Douglas' expression shifted to his more usual one of jaded humour. “Do you want me to be? Why, captain!”

“No!” Martin yelped.

“A pity,” Douglas said. Martin couldn't quite place the tone of his voice. Was it disappointed? Or pleased? He lifted a hand as a taxi pulled up. “Ah, our chariot. Ready for dinner, then? I'll call Carolyn and tell her to meet us. I'm sure she must be desperate by now. Arthur insisted on going to a shop called The Horse Barn to look for spurs. Or was it snaffles? Something starting with 's'. The mind recoils from delving too deeply into why Arthur would need them, though knowing Arthur, it's not anything I can imagine.”

“Probably something for one of those Horse Club girls he knows,” Martin said. “Can... would you mind if I just went to the motel? I think I'd like to be alone for a while. I'm going to... I need to... “ He gestured up at the heavens. “I can't call right now. My phone was in my jacket.” He rubbed his arms, gooseflesh prickling.

Douglas noticed his shivering in the cooling evening air. He shrugged out of his overcoat and handed it over. Martin didn’t refuse it and shrugged into the lingering warmth. The spicy scent of Douglas’ aftershave tickled his nose. “Thanks. Are you sure you won’t need it?”

“You don’t have a speck of padding to keep you warm, unlike myself. Don’t worry about me.” Douglas opened the taxi’s door and Martin scrambled in. “Is there a decent take-out burger place?” he asked the driver after giving the motel's name. “My captain needs sustenance.”

“A&W?” the driver said dubiously. “I mean, it's not as nice as a good sit-down restaurant, but the root beer is great.” He squinted at Martin's rumpled uniform shirt in the rearview mirror. “Are you really a captain? With an airline?”

“Yes, I am,” Martin sighed. He felt tired all over again by the old question. Every time he was out with Douglas, the comparison came up.

“And if you worked with him the way I do, you wouldn't doubt it,” Douglas said. Martin's mouth fell open. Douglas didn't even sound sarcastic, just matter-of-fact. “Though of course, Sir isn't wearing his hat. Without it...” Martin breathed a sigh. _Here it came._ “One might mistake me for being the superior officer, but that's not the case. Oh, there's that steakhouse. Would you mind pulling over?”

Martin blinked, dizzy. He couldn’t think of any other time Douglas would have passed up the chance to joke about how un-captainlike Martin looked. Amazing how it took a brush with death to make Douglas be kind to Martin.

The confused driver followed Douglas' direction, pulling into the crowded parking lot of a restaurant. Douglas turned to Martin. “Dinner! Savoury steak, jacket potatoes and the possibility of certain oysters! You all set for money?”

“Er. I don't know. Does A&W take credit?” Martin was still distracted. Douglas shook his head in exasperation and pulled out some bright bills. Martin accepted them in a daze.

“Go on. Call your husband.” Douglas' mouth curved up in a sly smile. “Good luck, and remember to take pity on the fellow. I'll wager he's had as rough a time as you, in his own way.” He winked and slid out from the taxi, thumping the door to send them on their way.

 

 

 

Martin was relieved that Carolyn hadn’t decided to have revenge on his budget-blowing illness by arranging for shared rooms. His bag was waiting in a small, bland room along with his uniform jacket. Martin wasted no time fishing out his phone charger and plugging it in. The take-out burger wasn’t bad, and the root beer reminded him of - well, nothing familiar, really. Sweet and vaguely medicinal. He jittered as the power bar grew and the phone connected to local networks. It buzzed. And buzzed again. And again. Martin groaned. Text messages.

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

YOUR SUDDEN ILLNESS HAS GREATLY UPSET YOUR SPOUSE. PLEASE CEASE AND DESIST BEING ILL BEFORE HE DOES SOMETHING RASH.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

UNLESS YOU ARE IN NO CONDITION TO DO SO. IN WHICH CASE, TRY NOT TO EXPIRE.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

EXCUSE MY FLIPPANCY EARLIER, I HAD NO IDEA IT WAS SO SERIOUS. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR MIRACLE. PANACEA IS CHUFFED.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

SPEAK TO YOUR HUSBAND. SOONEST IS BEST.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

YOU CAN OFFER YOUR THANKS FOR MY SERVICES WHEN YOU GET BACK. I PREFER A DRY RIESLING. INCENSE WOULD NOT BE AMISS.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

TELL YOUR DOUGLAS RICHARDSON HE’LL HEAR FROM ME SOON. RUDE BUGGER. I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU PUT UP WITH HIM.

 

TO: CRIEFF, MARTIN

FROM: HERMES

HAVE YOU NOT SPOKEN TO HIM YET? JEWELLED SANDALS, WHY DO I BOTHER.

 

Martin flipped to calls received and voice messages and frowned. He’d expected to have several frantic messages from Eros but there were none. Well, perhaps the network was lagging and they’d come later in another huge buzzing load. With slightly trembling fingers he found the contact number. It connected almost immediately.

“I’m coming. You’d better be recovered, Martin Crieff, or I will be _most displeased._ ”

Martin squeaked.

“Martin?”

“Yes,” Martin managed. “Um. Hi, Eros. I’m fine. Fine. Er, you don’t have to come, you know. Crisis averted.”

“I beg your pardon? I shouldn’t be there, be with you and see you’re all right? After you were that close to being scooped up by Thanatos?”

Martin couldn’t stop the nervous words spilling out. “It’s Thunderbird territory. Out here my spirit wouldn’t be picked up by anyone, it would just go on a journey, it’d be a bit of trek getting back home, do souls get to fly? That wouldn’t be too bad.” He bit his tongue. _Oh gods, he’d turned into Arthur._

“Don’t even joke about it! You are my _husband_ , of course Thanatos would come for you, I’d kick his arse across the Atlantic to fetch your soul, and… and I don’t want to talk about you dying anymore.”

“Sorry.” Martin put his head in his hand. “I’m sorry - I, I didn’t think. I didn’t mean to worry you. Did - Did Douglas ask Hermes to tell you?”

Eros’ voice grew steely. “And if he had? Shouldn’t I be told my spouse was mortally ill? Anyone who would have concealed such a catastrophe from me wouldn’t be worthy to be your friend, Martin. He prayed, Arthur begged, they all prayed for you. As they jolly well should have!”

“Don’t be angry with them.” Martin felt his chest constricting. “They're my friends.”

A heavy sigh. “Don’t beg, Martin, I’m sorry. I’m not angry with them. I’m grateful.”

“Oh.”

“No, I tell a lie. It scared me half to death when I heard the news. And now that I’ve spoken to you and can hear you’re all right, might I be allowed the luxury of being extremely out of sorts? Just as soon as I get over my terror for you, that is. _Skies_ , Martin.”

Martin flushed at the nakedness of the emotion in Eros’ voice. “I couldn’t exactly help it, you know. Appendicitis - it could happen to anyone.”

“I _know_. But you must have been getting ill all week, and I never even noticed!”

“Um. I just thought - well, that it was just lactose sensitivity. Or that I was coming down with something.”

“And did you ever. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t think it was serious! It wasn’t that bad, until -” Had it just been this morning? Martin swallowed. “The trip was planned ages back, I swear, Eros, you know I’d never fly if I was seriously ill. Regulations state...”

“Bugger the regs! I’m sorry, logic tells me one can’t plan for appendicitis. Nor can one be prepared for their husband to be halfway across the world when he has a go at eternal sleep, but… Martin, why can’t you take flights closer to home?”

“I can’t. Carolyn books the customers.“ Martin suppressed a surge of panic that his husband would beg him to quit. It would be unbearable; Martin couldn’t stop flying. He inhaled as the realisation came. _Oh, you dolt._ Eros was upset, yes, but he was in need of reassurance more than anything else. “I’m fine. Fine. Listen. Eros, I’m fine, I’m okay, it’s fine.”

“And anything you say four times must be true.” His husband exhaled, almost a laugh.

“That’s right,” Martin said. “And… and you’ll see me soon. Though I still think you don’t need to come. I... I’d like to see you, too.”

“ _Martin_ _._ ”

Martin felt a tug in his chest. Face burning, he thrust down his reticence and admitted in a low tone, “I wanted you. With me. When it got very bad.”

“Martin,” Eros said again in a pained tone. “I didn’t need Hermes to tell me. I just wish… I knew something was wrong, I felt your call like a hook in my chest.”

Martin felt tongue-tied at the question. “Well, yes, of course. Who else would I want? Aside from my mum. Oh, forget I said that last bit! Gods. Yes? Yes, I did.”

“Ah,” Eros said, sounding pleased and amused. “Thank you. I’m happy to share the honours with Wendy.”

Martin twiddled with the cord of his phone charger, uncomfortable with the emotional depth the conversation had reached. “You’re welcome?”

“Ah. Hm… Hermes is trying to get through. Hang on, love.”

Martin waited. The call clicked back. “Martin, there’s a small territorial issue. They’re not best pleased your friends jumped over local deities to bring in outside help. Would you do me a favour and make a small offering?”

“Sure.” Martin began to fumble in the bedside table for brochures of nearby amenities.

“Don’t forget the lube.”

Martin straightened with a jerk. The movement yanked the phone still attached to the charger from his hand. “Damn! Sorry, just dropped you. You still there?” The phone bleeped as his fingers skidded over it. “Hello?”

“I’m here. It’s not where you are and where I desperately long to be. Would you mind?”

“Yes, of course I'll do it! Um.” Of course Eros meant the lube was for… personal use and not an offering. Martin felt a wild urge to laugh. “I’ll handle it. I need to thank the gods anyway. My doctor was amazing.”

“Grand. I’ll be with you soon. Try to sleep if you can.”

“I don’t see how when you say things out of the blue like,” Martin dropped his voice into Eros’ deeper pitch, “ _‘Get lube, Martin_. _'"_

“I said don’t _forget_ the lube. If you have it already, it’s a moot point. And darling? Don’t forget to look both ways before you cross streets, don’t talk to strangers, and don’t catch a terminal illness before I reach you, please?”

Martin choked. “I didn’t mean to!”

A low chuckle. “I know. But take care of yourself. I’m glad there are those who watch out for you. I’ll be there soon, love.” The call disconnected. Martin blew out a breath.

“Right. Right. Offering.” He looked at the remains of his take-out. No, that would be doubtless be a deadly insult. “Okay. Convenience store. Offering. Lube.” He shrugged into his jacket and overcoat, patting his pocket to check he still had his wallet. “Sleep. Ha.” He zipped up, palmed the room key and went out, heart beating a little faster.

  
Eros was coming.

 

 

The convenience store clerk had been very helpful when she’d seen Martin hovering over the ritual rack. Martin closed his motel room door, dropped the bag with the feather and lube on the bedside table and dug out his sponge bag. Bleah. The American Spirit tobacco smoke lingered on his skin, combining unpleasantly with the faint smell scent of peanut butter and hospital antiseptic. It might please Thunderbird, but Martin didn’t care for tobacco, ritual burnings or no. He checked his phone. Still no more messages. He ought to have time for a quick wash up.

The shower was a long-anticipated relief, but Martin didn’t linger, nerves sizzling with anticipation. Towel slung around his shoulders and another wrapping his waist, Martin cleaned his teeth in the tiny sink. As he was re-packing his things on the mirrored vanity in the main room, the lights browned, then went out. He froze. Through the walls he heard squawks and complaints from other rooms. In the mirror’s reflection he could see a dim red glow around the edges of the curtains as emergency lights came to life on the walkway outside. There was rattle and the door opened and closed with a firm click.

Heart thumping Martin spoke out loud. “Th-that had better be my husband and not some serial killer. I d-don’t think I can stand another crisis today.”

A deep familiar chuckle relaxed his shoulders. “Tis I. Stay right there, don’t move.”

“How did you get in? The door was latched.”

“You might have heard the phrase, ‘Love unlocks all doors and opens windows that weren’t even there before,’ darling. No, don’t turn your head, I just need to be sure you’ll be safe.”

Martin’s heart gave a painful thump at the affectionate tone. He stared into the mirror, eyes following a dark shape as it moved around the room. There were clicks as lights were turned off. “Hm. That should be all of them.” Martin heard the faint roar of a telly with the volume turned up overloud as power returned to the motel, but the room remained dim. Then there were hands on his waist turning him before a mouth descended on his. Martin’s fingers curled around Eros’ shoulders as he succumbed to his relief at having his husband with him. The frantic movement of Eros’s mouth over his bespoke a similar need to be certain that the other was there, was all right and safe. The coolness of the evening air clung to Eros’ clothing, warming against his own as he backed Martin against the vanity counter. The kiss softened to the barest brush of lips until Eros drew away, breath warm on Martin’s face.

“Damn you,” Eros said, voice hoarse. “You scared me.”

Martin tucked his head under Eros’ chin, a shirt button pressing into his cheek. He choked a laugh. “Me too.” It was less than articulate but he knew Eros understood from the way his hands stroked over his back again and again. “Gods, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I, as well. And that you’re here to be with.”

“I’m fine, really. I’m fine,” Martin said. His arms tightened around Eros’ waist. “I - I can’t be got rid of that easily.”

“Praise the skies for that,” Eros said. “My persistent Martin. I don’t know what I’d do if - well, never mind.” His hands flexed and rubbed the bare skin over the damp towel. “You’re sure…?”

Martin leaned back, letting Eros run his hands over his stomach. “Yes. All gone. Like - like a bad dream.” His stomach muscles contracted as fingers glided over them and he stifled an involuntary giggle at the tickle.

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” Eros said sternly, but his fingers were beginning to draw suggestive patterns now. “Today was a day of great and terrible events. And stress. There will be no giggling.” Martin’s breathing hitched as his need for proximity slid from reassurance to a different desire, the hunger to _have._ Reaffirmation of life, to put a pretty label on the base imperative.

“It’s either laugh or cry about it,” he said. “And… and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather laugh.” He pulled Eros against him, impatient for more contact. “Or, or just forget about the whole mess. For now. If that’s all right… ah! With you.” A moan escaped him as Eros lifted him on the counter and moved between his legs, pressing his thighs wide. Martin tried to shuffle closer. The towel slipped free as Eros assisted him, grasping his hips until Martin felt the ready hardness nudging him through Eros’ trousers. He giggled again a bit wildly. “Okay. I guess it is. All right, I mean.” He blinked. His eyes were adjusting to the near-blackness of the room and he could discern the outline of broad shoulders and the shape of a head with smooth hair falling around it against the faint light that edged the drawn curtains. _Oh._ He couldn’t resist the urge to run hands up well-muscled arms, greedily taking in what little he could see.

“Again with the laughing,” Eros complained, but he was smiling, Martin knew. “Don’t ever stop, love. Wonderful husband mine.” There was a crinkle of plastic before a hand cupped his jaw. He swallowed as lips touched his. “Hold still, sweet.” Martin couldn’t help the disappointed noise as fabric settled over his eyes, smelling of new dye. The blindfold was tied around his head and he touched the material. Some kind of folded cloth. “Sh. I’m sorry, darling. I have to be careful. Not too tight?” Martin shook his head and thumbs smoothed over his closed eyes before Eros brushed a kiss over each. _Oh, gods._ The intimacy of the gesture closed his throat and he tilted his head up, yearning. Eros sighed and bent in for another kiss as Martin began to fumble open his shirt, craving the touch of skin against his own.

“A little help here?” Martin begged. Eros’ chuckle was husky. He shrugged free of his shirt, hissing a curse when Martin plastered himself to his chest, tongue dragging over a nipple. Hands found their way into his hair, curling almost painfully tight as Eros held Martin against him.

“Take me to bed,” Martin said, pulling away at last. He rested his forehead against firm muscle, his erection now a painful throb. “Now. I _need_ you.”

A bitten-off noise was all the warning he received before a hand went underneath him and he was scooped up. Immediately Martin wrapped arms and legs around his husband as he was carried the short distance to the bed. Instead of toppling both of them on the mattress, Eros lowered Martin carefully, as though he were a precious and breakable thing. Martin bit his lip and let Eros draw away for the short space of time it took him to remove his remaining clothing. The mattress dipped and Martin turned into Eros’ embrace with a gasp.

The familiar darkness was a cocoon that cradled Martin as his world narrowed to _this_ \- his husband’s hands, his lips on Martin’s skin the sole light, trails of bright sensation behind his closed lids. His hand tangled into Eros’ smooth hair, grounding himself, fingers spreading at the base of his skull. Eros’ kissing was languorous, sweet drags of lip and tongue that were slowly driving Martin mad. He reached, fingers skimming over the thin trail of hair the reached downward until he reached his goal and cupped Eros, hot and heavy in his palm. “Please,” he said, voice cracking, hoping, needing him to understand his unspoken desire. “ _Please,_ Eros.”

Eros shuddered against him. “Oh. Oh, _Martin._ Skies, yes, love.” Martin squeezed lightly, loving the noise Eros made, the involuntary thrust. “Anything you want. Anything.”

Martin endured the small moment of being bereft of Eros’ warmth as his husband moved to collect the small bottle of lube from the bedside table, but sighed as strong hands grasped his hips. He began to turn over, but Eros held him down. “No, darling. There’s no rush. Let me see for myself how beautifully whole you are.” Martin flushed and made to deny it - he wasn’t _beautiful,_ he knew perfectly well what he looked like. But Eros traced over the area where his appendix lay, drying the words in Martin’s mouth. _Oh, right_. But then Eros’ fingers were curling around his erection and all Martin’s thoughts evaporated under the lazy strokes.

“Eros.” Martin’s hands clenched into the bedding, hips rising into his husband’s grasp. A thumb played over the wet tip and he whined when Eros released him, only to groan more loudly when he heard the noise of Eros sucking the digit clean. “Oh, gods. Why me?”

“Because you deserve all the best. Because there’s no one else like you, my love.” Martin trembled at Eros’ words, lashes catching on the rough cotton of his blindfold as he squeezed his eyes more tightly shut against a sudden prickling. “Let me show you.” Eros’ hands moved over his body, relearning the shape of Martin’s shoulders, the curve of ribs, the changing texture of nipples as they pebbled beneath his knowing touch. Martin could only groan and clutch at his husband, writhing as Eros stoked the fire of his need to a blaze in the darkness. “So bright, my Martin.”

Martin found himself on his stomach, grinding into the mattress as Eros smoothed hands down the long muscles of his back, pressing his face between Martin’s shoulder blades. _Eros, Eros._ The name was a chant of need in his head, circling and feeding on itself. Eros’ shaky exhalation tickled Martin’s skin. “Sweet, it’s my turn to pray.” And he began worship, pressing kisses to each of Martin’s vertebrae. smoothing fingers over the dip at the base of his spine to cup the curve of Martin’s posterior. Martin’s breath hitched helplessly at each kiss moving its way further down. At the touch of Eros’ tongue to the sensitive circle of tissue, the noise that tore from Martin’s throat was more a dry sob than a groan. He couldn’t contain the helpless noises as Eros teased him loose then finally worked him open and wet using fingers and lube.

“Please, _please,_ I need you -” Martin shifted up to shaking arms and knees, pressing back into the furnace of Eros’ body.

“You have me,” Eros said, and finally, _finally_ Martin did, Eros sliding within in a movement that pushed all the air from Martin’s lungs. Large hands stroked up and down Martin’s back as Eros adjusted him for the best angle for his thrusts, and there, _oh, Eros_ -

“Martin.” Eros’ voice was squeezed to a rough timbre. “Martin, that’s it, come up here, darling.”

Martin found himself spread over Eros’ thighs, leaning back against his chest with Eros’ arm wrapped around him. He buried his face into the side of Eros’ throat, mouth open on moans as the angle of thrusts changed. Eros’ hand moved on his cock in concert with his thrusts. _Oh gods. Yes, perfect, so_ \- “Perfect, please -” He felt as if he were burning up, as if he were moving toward some great precipice, body and heart aching. _Almost there, almost, oh,_ “Eros, please…!”

Eros circled his hips and thrust up hard. “ _Yes._ Martin. Love.” Martin cried out and there, there was the edge. Sparks crowded his vision until all he saw was white. Surrounded, his husband around, upon and in him, he tipped over the edge at last, spilling hot and wet over Eros’ hand. Dimly he was aware of Eros shuddering, arms squeezing him tight as he lost himself within Martin’s body. But the darkness was reaching up for him. That was fine. Eros was here to watch and safeguard him. Martin sighed and let himself go.

  


Eros’ chest heaved like a bellows as he pressed the side of his face to Martin’s. “Love. My love.”  Oh, skies, that - Martin, his spark - so _bright_. Brighter even than when Martin was in his beloved aeroplane. Oh, finally, thank Nyx and Chaos, Martin loved him at last. “Darling?” He looked at Martin’s slack face, lolling against his shoulder and groaned a laugh. Of course.

Carefully Eros eased himself free of Martin’s body and laid him on the mattress. He lifted away the bandanna he’d used as a blindfold and tossed it on the bed. Martin was out like a light, face serene and oddly young in his unconsciousness.

Eros stroked a sweat-damp curl from Martin’s forehead and pressed a kiss to his lips. Martin didn’t even stir. Poor Martin. Well, it had been a stressful and fraught day. Eros couldn’t really blame him for checking out, though his heart ached that Martin had done so without giving Eros the words he so needed.

  
“I do love you,” he whispered. He settled himself to watch Martin until birds began chirping outside, heralding the coming of the dawn.


	15. Apogee Before the Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is terrible.

 

 

 

[12th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer,]

Martin woke alone, as he expected. He lay in the bed, eyes focussed on nothing while the warmth of morning sunlight slowly crept around the draperies to fill the room with a golden glow. Muscle pain and other slight discomforts were niggling for attention. The hot ache in his chest was of more importance. Martin pressed the heel of his hand over it, trying to snuff the burning sensation.

Gods, he was afraid. He knew now he was in love with his husband - and it terrified him. It was not love as he’d known in previous relationships - it was deeper, more hurtful. He laughed and the fractured noise made him swallow back his rising hysteria. He focussed on breathing, long inhales to slow the hammering of his heart. Ancient, dark, pure in of himself, fiery and terrible - the Delphic Oracle had prophesied Martin’s husband-to-be true. Martin had just never expected that he’d be the one burned, his long-held resentment worn away by Eros’ cheer, easy affection and care, the intimacies built over almost a year of nights. And last night, ye gods. Eros’ obvious fear for Martin’s safety and the tender way he given of himself to Martin had flayed Martin’s heart open. It felt a fragile thing in his chest, raw and sensitive.

Terrible. This feeling - love _was_ terrible. He understood now.

He loved a god. And… and was it possible…? Did Eros really love him in return? Martin was, well…

Martin clenched his jaw and swallowed. _Okay. Okay. Put your own horrendous lack of confidence aside. Think of real things. Where’s your evidence, Sherlock?_ He imagined sitting in GERT-I, a clip-board in his hand and began to compile a checklist in his head. Eros had a plethora of endearments and names for Martin, including ‘Darling’ and ‘Love’. Check. He closed every call with an affectionate phrase - 'Bye, darling, love you!' or similar. Check. He said he desired Martin from the first, wanted him to be happy, had granted him everything except the sight of his face and his days.

So.

Martin groaned and flung an arm over his eyes. Gods, had Eros ever told Martin he was clever? _He was humouring me._  Martin was an idiot. He'd been wary and protective of his heart. He'd ignored the growing affection for his _(_ _well, just admit it, why don't you!)_ wonderful husband by nursing resentment over the way his life had been upended. Maybe… no. He ought to stop brooding over the shortcomings in his marriage. Martin drew a shaky breath. Perhaps it was time to be as generous with his heart as his husband had been with him.

Martin turned on his side, wadding a pillow into a more comfortable shape. A bright spot of colour amongst the sheets caught his eye. In the dim light suffusing the room, he could see what Eros had used for a blindfold last night, ensuring Martin was unable to see him. A bandana. It was _hideous_ , a swirling mass of rainbow tie-dye over the normal paisley print. He smiled in spite of himself, a spark of warmth expanding within him. He drew it towards him and rubbed a corner between thumb and forefinger. What kind of god would buy something so patently absurd? His god, apparently. Martin pressed it to his face, grinning foolishly.

He loved Eros. Now he had to tell him.

_I'm still terrified, though.  
_

His phone beeped its first alarm. Martin sighed and flung back the covers. Time to go home.

 

 

Carolyn continued her inroads upon the Western omelette as Martin joined Arthur, Douglas and herself in the small diner. “Morning, all,” Martin said.

Douglas pushed a chair towards him with a foot. "Good morning. Sir is looking quite chipper this fine morning. Everything in working order and well?" He waggled his brows. Carolyn rolled her eyes at Douglas’ insinuating tone. She didn’t want to know, really.

Pink spread over Martin's cheeks. "Yes, it's, I mean, I'm fine," he said repressively. He ordered breakfast before turning to Arthur. "That's quite the hat, Arthur."

Arthur's smile was as wide and curly as the brim of the his new cowboy hat. "Got it yesterday. Isn't it brilliant? Here, Skip, you try it." He plopped the hat on Martin's head. It was much too big. Only Martin's ears kept it from falling over his eyes.

“Well, no one can say you’ve a swollen head,” Carolyn commented.

Martin nudged it back. Compressed by the hat, his curls now framed his face in a cherubic fashion. "How do I look?"

Douglas didn't hold back his chuckle. "Like a bronco-busting Botticelli babe. Someone’s going to want to rope you and drag you away.”

Instead of bridling in indignation, the corner of Martin's mouth twitched.

"Aw, Skip, you do look sweet!" Arthur said.

"Sweet enough to help along this coffee," Carolyn agreed. "Ugh, did they use the grounds twice?"

"Great. So I’m cowboy bait? Here, your turn Douglas."

Douglas took the offered hat and tipped it on his head. He turned in his chair and hooked an arm over the back, posing.

"I hate you," Martin said. "You look authentic, like a rancher or something."

Douglas tipped his hat, eyeing Martin from under the brim. "Thank you, Brokeback." He couldn't help grinning as Martin rolled eyes at him before digging into his eggs.

Arthur took back his hat. "How about you, Mum?”

“Thank you, but no. I’m happy to be a respectable British CEO rather than an ersatz cowgirl,” Carolyn said.

“Cowgirl? Is that the appropriate designation for…” Whatever insult Douglas was intending to use dried up under her withering look. He switched gears smoothly. “For MJN’s venerable and intimidating Ellie Ewing?”

“That’s more like it,” Carolyn said.

“Who?” Arthur said. Martin looked confused as well.

“Matriarch of the Ewing clan from the TV show _Dallas_ ,” Douglas supplied. “‘Who shot J.R.?’ Ring any bells?” Douglas sighed at their blank looks. “Oh, youth is wasted on the young. It was excellent. I particularly enjoyed the overwrought use of Native deities playing games with their lives as the Ewings tried to expand their oil empire. Inaccurate but entertaining.”

Arthur had lost interest and was shifting in his seat. “Mum, are we wearing Star Trek uniforms out? Can I wear my Spock ears with the cowboy hat? Oh, and is there enough time to get more peanut butter before we pick up Lord Leverhulme in Canmore? Used my Skippy up on Skip. Hey, isn’t that funny? Skippy for Skip!”

Martin groaned around a mouthful of toast as Douglas choked a laugh.

"Starfleet uniforms are optional, normal uniforms are not. Hat or ears, both or neither, love, I don't care." Carolyn finished her coffee and clattered her cup down. “If you find peanut butter, by all means, buy it.”

"The laird will love a Vulcan cowboy," Douglas said.

Martin was grinning faintly, as if he couldn't quite believe his absurd life but was entirely happy about it. Douglas pushed back his chair.

“Ah, Douglas,” Carolyn said before he could make good his escape. “Make yourself useful for once and take care of the bill. Standard tip rate, please. See if they can ring for a taxi as well.” She handed him MJN’s credit card.

“Why, Carolyn,” Douglas said in a parody of surprise, holding the card to his heart. “You trust me with this?”

Her answering smile showed the merest hint of teeth. “Why, Douglas, my dear smuggler and habitual prevaricator. Shouldn’t I?” With satisfaction she watched him turn without another word to do her bidding.

“Thanks for breakfast, then, Carolyn,” Martin said. “I - we appreciate it.” His grimace showed clearly that he was thinking of the extra expense his medical situation had caused her.

To cover any sentiment she assured him, “Not to worry, the next blue moon it’ll be on me again.” He laughed.

“Oh, right! Skip, I wanted to show you something else I got yesterday!” Arthur dove for his bag and rummaged before pulling out quite the most appalling rag Carolyn had ever seen openly displayed in broad daylight. She shook her head in exasperation. At the Horse Barn, she’d paid little heed as Arthur exclaimed over the twee Western paraphernalia. Mercifully, she’d missed seeing this purchase. Arthur tied it around his neck in place of his usual scarf. "Isn't it great? If I pull it up over my face like this, it’s like I’m a bandit!" His eyes squinted in delight over a swirl of neon rainbow colours. “What do you think?”

"Well," Carolyn said. "That's..." She coughed. “Exceptional. But a bit much. Perhaps you should put it away. In a dust bin, by preference.”

"Wha - where did you get that?"

Carolyn tilted her head at Martin’s taut question.

“At the Horse Barn!” Arthur said. “You can have mine if you want.”

“N-no!” Martin stuttered. At Carolyn’s enquiring glance he continued, “I… I have one just like it.”

“Surely you didn’t pick it out yourself?” Carolyn said. “I despair of your taste, if so.”

“We match!” Arthur said. “Isn't that brilliant?”

Martin’s face flushed and then drained of colour. His smile was strained. “Yes.” He set down his fork with a clatter. His mouth opened as if to ask a question but closed again. His confused gaze didn’t leave Arthur, who was miming a cowboy shootout with both hands and appropriate noises.

Carolyn looked between Martin and her son and shrugged, standing. “Arthur, if you’re done playing dress-up, corral our bags and wait for the taxi. I’ll rope our sky-god and see you both at front? Good.”

She left with Arthur on her heels. Martin sat alone at the table, his eggs congealing on his plate.

 

 

Douglas sighed inwardly. The whole trip to Canada had been rife with more strangeness than was usual for MJN. Post-ceilidh, Lord Leverhulme wasn’t his usual incomprehensibly loquacious self but only retired to his seat with bloodshot eyes and grumbles. G-ERTI, for unknown reasons, was bumped ahead of two other planes waiting to for take-off. This was a blessing, in Douglas’ opinion, down to either his own natural luck, the laird’s prayers to be home quicker or Carolyn’s determination - who knew.

Adding to the off-balance ambiance, Martin was silent, not contesting Douglas’ claim to operating back. That in itself was disturbing; he hadn’t seen Martin in such a state since the trip to Qikiqtarjuaq.

“Do you think Canada has it in for us?” Douglas mused aloud, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The crinkled landscape of the Rockies unreeled beneath them as he flew, the controls steady under his hand. Ahead where the peaks began to draw down towards the sea, a bank of clouds thickened.

“What?” Martin snapped out of his abstraction. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my luck,” he muttered.

Arthur entered, cowboy hat askew. “Howdy, chaps! Mind if I keep you company? Mum sent me away. Up here, I mean.”

“How kind of her,” Douglas said. “But really, Martin, what’s up with you? You were much more cheerful this morning.”

“Oh, er…” Martin’s gaze skipped over Arthur to fasten on the dark and now threatening view out the windscreen. “Breakfast.”

“Yes, breakfast is just so upsetting, isn’t it?” Douglas said.

“Not really.” Martin cut short Douglas’ next question, frowning at the cloud formation. “Gulf Echo Romeo Tango India to Kwakwaka'wakw Island Tower. Can you give me an update on the weather? Over.”

“Kwakwaka'wakw Tower to Gulf Echo Romeo Tango India. Weather’s clear to patches of cloud. Over.”

Martin bit his lip. “Thanks, Kwakwaka'wakw Tower. Over and out.” Martin glanced at Douglas. “I don’t like the looks of that. Divert?”

Douglas took a moment to appreciate that Martin no longer high-handedly gave orders and expected him to follow. Instead, he had begun taking advantage of Douglas’ vast flying experience, consulting him before making decisions. _The lad’s growing up,_ he thought with fondness. “Definitely, Captain. Just to be safe.”

Martin radioed their new course. “Amazing, you wanting the safe option,” he jibed, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“In my hands, I’ll never steer you wrong, my captain,” Douglas joked. “Our cargo is much too precious.”

“Well, Lord Leverhulme is a great customer,” Arthur commented.

“Douglas meant himself,” Martin said. He pressed the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ button. “Arthur, you might want to -”

“You wound me to the quick,” Douglas said. “My luck takes care of itself.” G-ERTI bucked in a gust and rain rattled against the windshield. “But I’ll always do my best to take care of the immortal’s beloved.” He smiled his most melting smile for Martin but turned his attention back to the controls.

“Praise the skies,” Martin snapped, swaying as another gust pushed against G-ERTI. “I’m thrilled to know I’ll never die on your watch. I knew there had to be some benefit to having a god for a husband.”

“I don’t think that’s the only one,” Douglas purred.

“Skip’s right, though,” Arthur chimed in unexpectedly. “You ought to remember that Skip’s married, Douglas.” He stood with legs braced against the flight deck door.

“What? Are you saying I flirt with him?” Douglas feigned astonishment.

“You do!” Martin said.

“I flirt with everyone!”

“Yeah, but have you ever thought about what would happen if Skip’s husband decided he didn’t like it?” Arthur said. “I mean, that could be bad. Really, really bad.”

"Well, no thunderbolt has struck me down yet," Douglas noted. "I’m fairly sure I’ll be fine."

Martin made a small noise and Douglas flicked quick glance at him. Martin’s eyes were wide, head swivelling between Douglas and Arthur. The plane bucked again and Douglas swore under his breath, slowing their airspeed. Lightning flashed. “Speaking of coincidental thunderbolts. I don’t think we’re going to get around or over this, Captain. Captain? _Martin._ Call the ATC again.”

Martin blinked and fumbled to obey. “Gulf Tango India to Kwakwaka'wakw Tower. Be advised we are experiencing a heavy storm and -” A crack of thunder drowned out his words. “Kwakwaka'wakw Tower. did you hear that? Check the weather again, and don’t tell me it’s clear. Over!” Martin’s voice cracked.

The ATC came back, voice flat. “The weather _was_ fine. Now there’s a localised storm cell centred around your area. Gulf Tango India, did you piss off someone up high? Be advised we’re keeping an eye on you. Over.”

“Understood. Over and out.” Martin turned to Douglas, frantic. “Douglas, tell me you did the offering.”

Douglas felt a twinge of guilt. “You know I don’t pray.”

“You told me you made at least made offerings! Did you not even do that?” Martin made a frustrated noise. “Ye gods, Douglas!” He grabbed his armrests and dug his fingers in as G-ERTI tilted. Arthur yelped as he overbalanced and fell. Douglas strained against the yoke, fighting to keep G-ERTI level.

“Chaps. Um. What is that?” Arthur quavered from the floor.

A huge dark eye that was the approximate size of a compact car was regarding them with avian interest through the windshield, the dark infinities within lit with flashes of lightning.

“Oh, shit,” Martin whispered. Douglas heartily concurred. “Thunderbird.”

“Um. Wow,” Arthur said, though he still sounded scared. “Hello. Nice to meet you?”

There was several deafening cracks sound as Thunderbird clacked his beak. _Trickster. Raven-friend. I see you._

Arthur whimpered and scrabbled to flatten himself against the rear of the flight deck. “No, no, that’s not me! Douglas, make it go away!”

“I can’t,” Douglas gritted. He blinked hard, trying to clear the purple dots in his vision from the bright flashes. His arms ached as he fought the controls. ears ringing with rolls of thunder as the god slowly beat its wings to keep pace with them. Martin reached for his own yoke, adding his meagre strength to the battle to keep G-ERTI from tipping on her wing.

“I can! I can do it! Control, Douglas give it to me!” Martin tightened his grip.

“Martin, I don't think...” Douglas had never felt this powerless in his existence.

“Just... just trust me!”

Douglas took a shaking breath. “You have it, Captain.” Douglas turned over G-ERTI and the keeping of all mortal souls within to Martin’s grasp.

The flight smoothed out, the strain of G-ERTI’s engines winding down as the wind died away. The great eye winked once and disappeared as the clouds evaporated, leaving them flying in bright sunshine. Douglas exhaled all his tension in one long breath. “I take it you did an offering, then.”

“Last night,” Martin said, hands still tight around the steering column. “Lucky for us.”

“Yes,” Douglas said. “That was indeed a blessing. Well done, Captain.”

Arthur straightened himself up. “Uh. That was… that was kind of brilliant. I guess. I just met a god.” His laugh was thready. “Mum was right. I don’t think I want to get that close to another one again.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I know how you feel.”

"All things considered," Douglas said, "I'll be glad when we're out of Canada and home again."

 

 

 

[13th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

“Sweet, I’m just glad to have you back home and safe,” Eros said. They were ensconced in their bed chamber with the draperies shut, enclosing them in their cosy space. “Thank skies you’d remembered the offerings. I don’t like you going into other gods’ territories so often.”

“It wasn’t as if I’d done it on purpose,” Martin said, voice dragging with tiredness. “You’d asked me to do it the night before, after all. Thank the gods. I mean, you. I’m glad it served two purposes.”

“Poor dear,” Eros said. He brushed Martin’s hair back and kissed his temple. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just exhausted. And hot,” Martin said. “Can we open the bed draperies? Maybe the windows? It’s stifling in here.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Eros said. Martin sighed heavily, as if he’d expected the answer but was still disappointed. Eros thrust down the twinge of guilt at the sound. “Lie back, darling, let me take care of you.”

Martin settled against the pillows with the sheet pulled to his waist. “You always do,” he said, voice low. “You… you always seem to be there. For me.”

“Yes, love,” Eros said. He manifested a wing and began to gently fan his love’s flushed skin, watching Martin’s face relax into sleep.

Eros’ finger traced the outline of Martin’s outflung arm on the bedclothes, not quite touching him. Something was not right. What was it? Martin had sorted his problems with MJN and Douglas. His spark had been growing, burning ever brighter as his happiness and contentment grew. It had blazed inferno bright during their reunion in Kamloops. Eros had been certain that Martin would at last declare his love upon his return some to Eros’ waiting arms. But now? Eros shifted his gaze to Martin’s chest, looking with his other sight. Martin’s gorgeous light was dimming and brightening in a worrying fashion even as he slept. Martin’s eyes twitched beneath closed lids. His brow creased and he turned on his side, curling away from Eros.

“Bad dreams, Martin?” Eros murmured. He let his wing go insubstantial and lay behind his husband, echoing the curve of Martin’s body yet careful not to settle against him lest Martin overheat. But he couldn’t resist the need to rest a hand on Martin’s bare back behind his heart. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

 

 

 

[14th of  Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, summer]

Carolyn breezed into the office followed by Arthur. “Two more bookings for Metageitnion! Hera bless impatient rich tourists and their lucrative need to drink frilly cocktails abroad.”

Douglas groaned. “Carolyn, I thought we had agreed that we would have a break mid-month.”

“Agreed? No, you suggested it and I said we’d see. Now we do,” Carolyn said, crossing out the tentative holiday on the schedule and filling in several blocks. “I’m sure you don’t need to be told who pays your salary, Douglas.”

Douglas subsided with a disgruntled expression.

Martin joined her. “New York… and Miami? Are we booking more overnight flights?”

“Yes, but I don’t take flights based on my pilot’s preferences, I take them based on money,” Carolyn said.

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” Martin said. “I wanted to have more.”

Douglas lifted a brow. “Are you sure, Martin?” His expression indicated that Martin was forgetting something. “Won’t your husband mind?”

Martin faced him, face mutinous. “Why would he? He promised I could fly; why shouldn’t I have my freedom? If you need me, Carolyn, I’d be up for single pilot flights as well. No need for Douglas to work so hard when he’s so clearly set against it.”

“I resent that,” Douglas said mildly.

Arthur smiled with happiness. “It’ll be brilliant, Skip. That way I can hang out with you even more! Flying, that is.”

“Yeah, all the livelong day,” Martin said. “Won’t that be splendid. As if I didn’t spend enough time with you. And Douglas, too.” He eyed Arthur, who was carefully counting their stock of bottled water out loud.

Douglas pursed his lips at Martin’s unwonted sarcasm towards Arthur but let the matter drop. Good thing Arthur was so oblivious. “Fair enough.”

Martin was turning a pen over and over in his hands. He took a breath and opened his mouth. “Arthur, I was wondering… Can I talk to you alone? I need to, um. I wanted to ask you a question -”

“As do I,” Carolyn cut in. “Arthur, what are you doing here?”

“Counting stock, Mum!” Arthur said.

“Yes, I can see that, dearest, but I meant, why? No,” she held up a hand to forestall what was likely to be the obvious answer. “Why are you here - now - when I know for a fact that you are supposed to be on your way to London for the pre-feast and wedding of one of your multitude of friends? Pru or Percy or Penelope, I can’t remember. Perhaps all three.”

A bottle dropped from Arthur’s hands. “Oh. Oh!” He scrabbled out his phone and checked the calendar. “Oh no! I forgot to take my phone off aeroplane mode, the alarm didn’t go!” His aghast face made Douglas chuckle.

“A little tardiness won’t hurt. Look, if Carolyn doesn’t mind my absenting myself from my gripping duties, I’ll run you down to the station. British Rail providing, you’ll be in London in sufficient time.” Carolyn waved regal dismissal and Douglas collected his keys and jacket.

“Oh, thank you, Douglas! Can we go by my house to pick up the gift?” Arthur said.

Douglas shrugged. “Certainly. A change of clothes wouldn’t be amiss, you know.”

“Oh, right! Thanks for reminding me!”

“Set your alarm for the trip on the 17th, Arthur. Have Douglas write it on your arm if you have to. Have a nice time,” Carolyn said as Arthur chivvied Douglas out the door. She sighed as the door clicked and turned to Martin. “I swear, it’s always _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ with that boy. What did you want with him, Martin?”

Martin looked at the door in frustration. “I… it can wait, I guess.”

 

 

“Sweet, how was your day at the office?”

“Fine. Fine. It was fine. Carolyn’s got us booked pretty solidly for the rest of the month.”

“Oh. No holiday, then?”

“It doesn’t look that way. S-sorry.”

“I profess I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to inverting your sleep schedule so we could spend our nights in more pleasant activities. Athletic ones, even. Our very own Bedchamber Games. The raspberries will be in full season, and I had such _plans._ ”

“Yeah. I suppose so. It’s too bad, I mean.”

“...Is it? Weren’t you looking forward to it as well?”

“Of, of course I was, Eros. You know how I enjoy them. Our... our nights. I’m sorry, I’m babbling. It’s been a long day. Really… long.”

“Ah. I’m keeping you from your beauty sleep. Rest then, darling.”

 

 

 

[18th of Metageitnion, Year 4 of the 697th Olympiad, late summer]

“Take care! Thank you for flying with MJN!” Carolyn’s smile dropped as soon as the last drink-sodden reveller was poured into the waiting taxi. “That’s it. No more. I’m blacklisting all double-barrelled surnames from the client list hereafter.”

Martin pulled off his cap with a sigh, running his hands through his curls. Arthur’s normal smile was sagging with strain. “I won’t object if you do,” Martin said.

“Banned until the next lucrative booking, anyway,” Douglas said. Carolyn scowled but did not deny it.

“Well, all’s well that doesn’t end with vomit on the seats. Arthur, don’t linger with the hoovering tonight. I want nothing less than a sub-lethal dose of gin and tonic and a hot bath.”

“To each their own vice,” Douglas said.

“I’ll help Arthur,” Martin said. “If you want to go home, I’ll finish up the forms too. I can run Arthur back to your place in my car.”

“Really, Skip? That’d be great,” Arthur said, smile perking up. “Because it’s going to take forever to get up all the crackers trodden into the carpet.”

“Don’t you want to get home to hubby? It’ll be dark by the time you finish,” Douglas said. Martin grimaced at the nickname but shook his head. Douglas sighed in self-sacrifice. “I’ll handle the paperwork, then.”

Carolyn eyed him. “Really, Douglas. That’s unexpected of you.”

“Can’t have Martin winning all the favour, can I? He can tell his god all about how I saved him time and sent him home early to his loving arms.”

“Oh, shut up, Douglas! I’m not going to say anything of the sort.”

“Fine, I’ll leave you two to squabble. I’m off to my well-deserved drink,” Carolyn said. “I’ll see you the day after next for the Miami trip, lackeys.” She left.

Douglas sat and began working through the forms at a glacial pace. Martin had gone silent again during work. It wasn’t quite the deep misery Douglas had witnessed before, but Martin’s bouts of introspection were… peculiar. And unsettling. Try as he might, Douglas couldn’t think of what could have set the lad off - surely it wasn’t his fault again? But just in case, he wanted to get Martin alone and try to worm the matter out of him.

Half an hour’s work saw him still waiting for Martin and Arthur to finish with G-ERTI, twiddling a pen over the finished papers and utterly bored. He stretched, yawned, and stood to relieve his legs. He was considering whether he might entrap Martin another day when he heard voices approaching outside the Portakabin.

“You’re not mad, are you, Skip?” Arthur sounded worried.

“No, no. No, I’m not, Arthur. Not at all. No. But… but it’s a lot to take in. What you said.”

Four ‘no’s’? Martin must be in a state. Hm. Douglas crept closer to the door, hand on the knob.

“I’m sorry, Skip. I was, well. Just trying to look out for everyone. And you. I didn’t mean to… Sorry.”

“It’s… It’s fine, Arthur. We’re good.”

“Oh, brilliant!”

There was a pause, and Douglas just had to see. He opened the door. “Martin, I’ve just finished…” His voice trailed off. Martin drew himself from Arthur’s enthusiastic embrace, red-faced and wheezing slightly.

“Douglas!” Martin licked his lips nervously. “Wh-what do you want?”

Douglas didn’t blink, he just stared at Martin with hard eyes. “I was just saying all the t’s are crossed, i’s have been dotted and we are free to go.” He glanced at Arthur. “Arthur, I’d like to talk with Martin a minute.”

“Sure thing, Douglas,” Arthur said. Martin hesitated but passed Arthur his car keys.

Douglas scarcely waited until Arthur was out of earshot before he spoke. “Arthur? Really, Martin? After Arthur’s little comment about the wrath of your husband being ‘really, really bad’ for those who trifle with you, is that wise of him? But it is Arthur, after all.”

Martin lifted his chin and didn’t back down. “Maybe it wasn’t you he was worried about. He… he cares about me.”

“Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” Douglas shot back. “Your husband isn't going to be best pleased if he hears about you flinging yourself into the arms of others!”

“Yes, because that’s just the way I want to live! Always worried that my husband is going to do something to my friends or myself if I step out of line!” Martin shouted back. “I refuse to live like that. And I... I… it’s not going to happen! What do you know about it, anyway?”

“I’m worried about you, you little idiot. I’m trying to stop you making what looks like the worst choice of your life,” Douglas snarled.

“Funny how no one thinks I can take care of myself,” Martin said. “Not, not you, not Arthur, not even…. my husband. Anyway, Arthur’s… Arthur’s a good guy. He’s fine, _we’re_ fine. I mean, if we were actually… but at least it would be _my choice!_ I never got the chance to… to... If it’s a mistake, it’s mine to make. So tell me why it’s any of your business, Douglas! Go on, tell me!”

Douglas opened his mouth for a sharp answer but checked himself. He blew out a breath.

Martin’s face twisted. To Douglas’ horror, he looked as if he were on the verge of tears. But to his relief, Martin gathered himself together. “Just... I know we’re friends now. I think. I hope. But I don’t want to talk about Arthur. You’re _wrong_.”

Douglas held up his hands in appeasement. “All right. Fine.”

Martin nodded, looking at the tips of his shoes. “Good.”

“Martin,” Douglas said. Martin lifted his head. “You are. My friend,” Douglas clarified at Martin’s confusion. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say you’re… you’re my best friend.” He essayed a smile. “Not that that’s saying much, considering how my circle of acquaintances has shrunk since I left Air Britannia.”

Martin’s return smile was no more than a twitch of his lips, but it was real. “Th- thank you.”

“Martin,” Douglas said again as Martin turned away. Martin paused, eyes questioning. “Arthur’s not the only one who looks out for you. But if it bothers you, I’ll stop.”

Martin’s smile was fractionally bigger this time. “You don’t mother me with Toblerone the way Arthur does, which is a point in his favour, you know. But... it’s okay.” He lifted a hand in farewell and walked to his car, long shadow trailing behind in the light of Fitton Airfield’s flood lamps. A disconsolate sigh trailed after him.

Douglas touched a finger to his brow in salute. His own smile fell away. “Martin. Martin, what are you doing?” he asked the air.

 

 

Martin parked his car the garage, killed the engine and sat in the darkness. He put his head against the steering wheel and vented a pained sound. Oh, gods, what am I going to do? Anger and outrage eeled around in his stomach.

_I can’t… I don’t want to believe it. He, he… and all this time! The whole time and I’m such an idiot, I never wondered. Was it just, just some joke, a trick? Gods, I knew what erotes were like. Watching over me, ha, I was being watched all the time, like, like some stalkee._

His throat clicked as he swallowed the sense of betrayal. How could his husband do this to him? Why? Didn’t he trust Martin? Martin trusted… had trusted him. And, and they’d been so happy. Well, Martin had been happy but ignorance was bliss, apparently. He'd been well and thoroughly duped.

What to do, what to do. He couldn’t escape - not because he was afraid of Eros or upset, but because… Martin swallowed an up-rush of sentiment. Gods, _gods,_ he was such an idiot. The ache behind his breastbone throbbed and stung and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Stubborn, his dad had called him. Determined, Eros had said. Hades take it, if he could face down a Thunderbird, bargain a salary out of Carolyn and win concessions from a god, then he could handle this.

He just needed time.

He climbed from the car, aching all over in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. Closing the garage door, he put his back against it and looked at the silhouette of his house against the night sky. He’d gone up the path so often now he could do it in the dark with his eyes closed. Funny, considering his life. Was Eros even now inside? Was he waiting with his lovely warm voice, his humour, his skilled hands and intoxicating body? Martin had grown used to the swell of contentment he had upon coming home.

Home. It was his home, their home, they’d made it together. But Martin now dreaded going inside, couldn’t think what he’d say to his husband. What to do?

He had to try and put on an act. _Okay, I’m terrible at lying but maybe I can pretend something else is the matter?_ Martin grimaced. _Like I’ve been doing all this week. Thank gods for the extra flights. Hope he doesn’t think I’m avoiding him. Ha. But I won’t have to... have to lie. Or talk much._

He was angry, and hurt... and he still loved his husband.  _Oh gods, please don’t let him ask me what’s wrong, I can’t handle his kindness now. Not now._

_Tyche, someone - help me. Let me trust him enough to explain and tell me himself._

Enough talk about taking control. He was going to _do_ it, stop being kept in the dark. This was his _life_ , damn it! No more flying blind.

Martin clenched his hand until the keys dug into the soft skin of his palm. Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and went into his house.

 

 


	16. Like a Wind Upon the Oaks, Love Shakes my Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros is desperate enough to beg for help in saving his marriage.
> 
> Still being kept in the dark by his husband and at the end of his tether as well, Martin isn't going to beg. 
> 
> But he is going to take control of his life back.

 

[26th of Metageitnion, Year 4 of the 697th Olympiad, late summer]

 

“You’re back late, love. Hm. And tied one on, I see. Ruddy cheeks and red hair do charmingly set off your eyes, my little captain.” Eros uncurled from his position on the bed and set aside the book he’d been reading in the dark.

“Carolyn called. Las’ minute booking, short hop, only needed one pilot. Me ‘n Arthur and some of the mechanics went out for a drink. No flight t’morrow. S’okay.”

“You took a taxi home, I sincerely hope.”

“Of course! Can take care myself, y’know.” Martin scowled in Eros' general direction and began fumbling at his shirt.

“I know, sweet. But let me help you with those pesky buttons. There.” Eros deftly stripped the shirt and trousers from a loose-limbed and compliant Martin. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“‘M fine. Thanks.” Martin yawned.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d be home at all. I’m accustomed to missing having you beside me at night when you’re abroad, not so much when you’re still in England.” Eros heaved a sigh. “It feels like I’ve hardly had you to myself at all this month. You just got back from the Miami trip. Carolyn certainly is keeping you hopping.”

Martin’s blinks were slow, his head tipping as he tried to focus on the space where Eros sat beside him. “But... thought you wanted me t’get out more, not stay stuck in the house s’much. Not a pris’ner.”

“Yes, I did say that. You’re completely right.” Eros tangled his fingers into the curls on the side Martin’s head, enjoyed the tickling slide as he combed through them. Martin’s head rocked with the motion until he made a complaining noise and turned his head to trap Eros’ hand against the pillow. Eros took a breath. Martin's spark was still doing that odd flaring and dimming within, though tonight it was subdued, no doubt due to his inebriated state. “Martin, are you all right?”

“M’ fine!” Martin said. “Told you.”

“No, I meant… you’ve been preoccupied lately.”

“Been busy.”

“Even so.”

Martin seemed to realise the insufficiency of his answer and groped out until he found Eros’ knee. He nearly missed his mark but managed to pat it a few times. “Well. Well, y’know. I... " He stopped as if trying to remember what the topic was, scowling fiercely. His face cleared. "Well... have the worst luck. In the world. I mean, for, for, for example! Nearly died. Twice! On one trip! Gotta wonder, why, why... why me? And, and then… “ He seemed to recall himself. “Worst luck. Tyche hates me, maybe. My life, everything. Jus’ wanna know why. Why me.” His voice began to slip into incoherent an mumble, hand falling from Eros’ knee. “Yeah. Preocc'pied. Din’ mean to worry you.”

Eros lifted his lover’s hand. “Martin, I’ll always worry. You do know I love you, don’t you?” A heavy exhalation was his answer as Martin slipped into alcohol-assisted sleep. Eros kissed the limp fingers. He let Martin’s arm relax back onto the bed clothes and slid his trapped hand from beneath the warm weight of his love’s head. "Little liar. I wish you'd..." He shook his head, disgusted. Why should Martin be open with him? Eros didn't have a leg to stand on.

Eros rubbed his fist over the ache in his chest, watching Martin as he slept. Russet lashes on pink cheeks, the generous mouth part on a slight snore, the freckles dusting his nose - so unconventional. So unique. So bright his spark, though the wavering of its light seemed to foretell the weakening of the structure of their relationship.

He was losing Martin, losing hope of gaining Martin's love. And of course he was losing the sodding bet and his godhood therein. And yet Eros knew with a sharp certainty that he could endure it if only Martin would...

This mortal, this Martin Crieff had undone the god of love. Eros would curse Pothos, but he’d been complicit in putting himself in this predicament.

_No god hates you, Martin, more than I hate myself for my own folly._

He lay down and pulled the sheet over them both, tucking it with care around Martin's shoulders. With hands that trembled, he picked up his book and opened it. But the words refused to resolve themselves and he closed it again, gripping it with both hands until the spine cracked.

 

 

[28th of Metageitnion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad, late summer ]

The private back room of the pub was one that no mortals ever saw. Ostensibly it was a private dining area that could be reserved for parties, though the grotty condition of the drinking place without and its location in an unfashionable and dangerous area ensured that few humans would ever try. If they did ask, ‘The Symposium’, as the hand-lettered sign on the room’s exterior named it, would be under repairs. It often was, in truth - immortals enjoyed a good knees-up as much as they did their music and poetry. It was well-known that if one was rusticating in England in the mortal realm, The Symposium was a great place to drop your guise amongst your own.

Nonetheless, evenings in The Symposium did tend to start in a civilised manner. There was food to cushion the drinks, with revellers getting more raucous as the wine was passed around. Songs and poems were presented at ever-louder levels that tested the room’s sound-proofing. No one ever suggested to Euterpe what she could do with her flute twice, though; word had gotten around.

It was into the early evening relaxation of flute music, flowers and quiet discussion that a figure smothered in a rain-wet cagoule was thrust stumbling to his knees into the back room. “Black teats of Nyx, just fucking get in and stay in here,” hissed Anteros at the unfortunate. “You’re starting to look like some bad effects from Doctor Who, flashing in and out like a damned broken disco strobe!” He kicked the door closed behind him, strode to a low table and splashed wine into a kylix. Draining it in one long swallow he shook his head. “Why I let you drag me out so you could whine at me about unrequited love, I don’t know.”

“It’s what you _do_ ,” the figure said, rocking back on his heels and overbalancing onto his rear. There was a flicker of light in the shape of wings as the man tried to focus. “Oof. Are you going to pour me one of those?”

“Well, I didn't do it to you, you fathead! You're barking up the wrong tree! And no, I think you've had quite enough!”

“Are those the dulcet tones of our dear cousin, Anteros?” a lazy voice called from a couch. Pothos sat with his booted feet on a low table. He blew a stream of smoke ceiling-ward and crushed out his cigarette.

The god turned his head towards the sound of Pothos’ voice. “You. I told you to stay away from him.” He pawed at the strings cinching the hood tight around his face. The knot broke and the cord was yanked free.

Pothos lifted his hands as if to demonstrate how empty his hands were of blame. “ _Yasou_ , Eros, son of Nyx. According to the terms of our wager, I’ve not gone near your mortal. Zeus bear witness to the truth.”

The woman in black sunglasses lying with her head on Pothos’ lap stopped bouncing a ball against the wall upon hearing the name. “Eros,” she said, turning her sightless gaze towards him. “Huh.”

Eros pawed the smothering hood of the cagoule from his face and wavered to his feet, uncaring of the stares and giggles from the other occupants of the room. “You! And her. Was it you, Tyche? Did he make a bargain with you? No one has luck that bad. No one! Martin almost _died_.”

“Um,” she said but Eros turned on Pothos again.

“You- you can’t interfere. In any way. You’ve done enough to me as it is. We - we had a bargain!”

“I’ve done nothing,” Pothos said, lifting his voice. “For Chaos’ sake, get it through your thick skull. I don’t want him dead. Aside from the entertainment value of seeing your oh-so-maudlin state, the world is much more interesting with Martin in it.”

“True,” Anteros spoke up from the other side of the room, shamelessly listening in as the rest of the room was. “I sure get a kick out of watching him. He’s so funny.”

Unheeding, Eros spoke to Tyche, voice rough. “Please, please don’t kill him. Don’t let anything else happen. Even if I can’t have him, let him have a long and happy life.” He gulped. “It’s killing me, he keeps asking, and I can’t let him _see_ me, even a little! Much less all of me, because I’m _me_ and he’ll, he’ll just fall in love and it’s not what he wants.”

“Oh skies above,” came a muttered voice. “Someone’s drunk.”

Tyche blew a breath and sat up, swinging her legs around. The cheap rubber ball spun and danced between her fingers until colour and sparkles swirled within. “For pity’s sake, Eros. Fine, listen up - I’ll tell you something but only because you’re such a love-sick chump it’s giving me secondhand embarrassment even to be near you.” She caught the ball between two fingers and held it up, soul sparks reflecting in the black lenses of her glasses. “Look here - this one? That’s Martin as you knew him when you met.” One spark expanded, brighter than the rest. “Pretty lad, isn't he? I like the look of him. Oh, but here you come and scoop him right up. Arranged marriage dropped on him like a cage just when he’s ready to spread his wings.”

Eros drew near, watching as the spark flickered and dimmed. His hands clenched at his sides.

Tyche cooed at the spark. “Aw, honey, don’t look like that. You know you’ve got grit.” The dim spark suddenly flared, a bright blue light taking root and began to burn. “That’s him telling you to stuff your marriage unless he got what he wanted. Good for you, Martin!”

Chuckles ran around the room and heads craned to watch. The saga was as good as any lyric poem for entertainment.

“Oh, but then there’s your wager - and you’re a featherbrained twit for making it, by the way, Eros. Martin doesn't even get the courtesy of having a husband for days as well as nights, not even a _name._ ” The spark shivered again, but the blue blaze shone on. “Thank the skies that Martin has his flying, because, peaches? Not even the best sex in the world is going to make up for half a marriage.” The sharp tilt of her head said, _you fucking idiot._ Eros closed his mouth on what he was about to say as she tapped the blue with a fingertip, making the spark dance.

“And life goes on.” The ball dropped from her fingers, now a pendulum on a string. “Martin has some ups and downs - mostly downs for a while, but you know that.” The pendulum swung out unevenly. Left, left, left again. “Wow, that is some bad luck, sucks to be him. It’s almost like someone has it in for him. Strange, huh?” Her dark brow lifted meaningfully. “But Martin? He swings back. You see?” The pendulum’s swings grew smoother, with longer arcs. The spark grew brighter until its glow engulfed the ball's shape. “Of course, there are those near-death things, but he always swings back. He’s a tough one, your Martin. Now, I can’t tell you much about his future but what I’m seeing is this: Martin is blessed. Otherwise…?”

The ball dropped. Eros took a stumbling step forward but Tyche caught the ball before it reached the tiles.

Pothos drank off the last of his wine with a sigh of enjoyment. “So much fun. Look, coz - if you’re so worried about his popping off the mortal coil, why don’t you just keep him at home?”

Eros shook his head, wobbling slightly. “I can’t. Can’t. I love him. Give him anything. Even if he wanted to leave. Won’t even deny him that. I want him to… be well.” He lifted a face lined with strain. “He should be happy. Even if I can't be.”

In a sudden motion he grabbed for his quiver, tangling the strap in his cagoule before tossing it at Pothos’ feet. “Here. Just take it. Your bet is as good as won.”

Pothos eyed it, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Oh, cousin,” he sighed. “No, not just yet. I think I’ll wait. There's still a few days to go before your year of bliss is up, and I won’t have anyone saying there was any kind of dodgy play if I take your powers prematurely.” His smile was vulpine but not unkind. “Not much time left for Martin to declare his love. To you, the real you. No guises, no tricks.”

“As if I could forget,” Eros snarled.

Anteros hummed in appreciation. “Hoo, you’ve got it bad, cousin. It’s practically a paean to myself, all this unrequited love.”

“Savour my misery, then. Especially you,” Eros spat at Pothos. “Drawing it out like this.”

Pothos only shook his head. Dropping his feet from the table, he toed the quiver back towards Eros. Eros picked it up. “Promise me,” Eros said. “Just… promise me that whoever Martin chooses, it’s really love. That’ll be within your powers then. After... after you win.”

“Oh, sweet skies!” Pothos dropped his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. He lifted a grinning face to Eros’ serious one. “Okay, Yes. When Martin loves, then he’ll be loved in return."

Anteros was confused. "Okay, so... if you lose the bet and swap powers with Pothos, what makes you so sure Martin is going to go for someone else? Can't you just 'fess up and sweep him off his feet? You won't have to hide yourself anymore. No, wait, wait. He's better off not knowing about the wager. Don't tell him."

"Do you think," Tyche said, voice low and pitched to carry, "a secret like that can be hidden for long? Once Martin knows..."

"He'll hate him," Anteros said. "Yeah, got that. Long time to deceive the poor guy. You've kind of outdone yourself, Eros. Your marriage is a sham."

"Stop," Eros whispered. "That - that's not true. I love him, and that's not a lie." The immortals watched with prurient interest as Eros pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, breathing hard. His voice was hoarse. "Whoever Martin loves, will love him back. Your oath upon it, Pothos." Eros swayed but his voice was steady.

Pothos barked a laugh. "Yes, by the darkness that spawned you! I swear it.”

“Good.” Eros nodded, head wobbling. His legs buckled and he sat abruptly on the low table in front of the couch. He swayed towards Tyche. She cocked her head. “Dearest Tyche, I apologise for my previous words. But please don’t make me suffer through Martin any more. The small mishaps I can take, but this unremitting bad luck, the near-misses - don’t do that to him.”

Tyche shook her dreadlocks back over her shoulders. “I told you, sweet cheeks. His luck is, believe it or not, well-balanced. You saw it.” She patted him on his drooping head. “I can see you’re in a bit of a down-swing yourself, hon.” She smiled. “Get me a drink, and I’ll see if I can push your pendulum back.”

Eros took her hands and pressed messy kisses to the backs of them. “Don’t care about me. Just him. I can be nice. Not like that, married and everything but…  God of love. For now. Tell me what you want, I’ll get it for you. Favours. People owe me favours. Just give him good luck.”

“That’s so _cute_ ,” a nymph cooed.

“Aw, peaches.” Tyche drew her hands free and cupped his face. Eros stared into her glasses, the reflection of his hope burning back at him. She kissed his forehead gently. “He has all the luck he needs. What will be, will be.”

Defeated, he slumped back. “Mother Nyx, help me,” he said and covered his face again. “Help me.”

Pothos cleared his throat. “Come on. I’ll put you up, you’re in no state to be seen by mortals. Can you pull a guise together long enough to get to my car?” He rolled his eyes as Eros made no response, face still hidden. Pothos yanked the hood of the cagoule forward and pulled Eros to his feet. “Good evening, all. Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion in a few days' time. Let’s go, coz.”

They left to called farewells and the renewed buzz of conversation. Tyche smiled to herself as Anteros took Pothos’ place on the couch. “You are so full of shite, all you _erotes_. Unrequited love, my arse. 'Oh, he's so going _hate_ you, Eros, your whole life is a  _lie,_ like, how are you even the god of  _love?_ '” she said in the pitch of an annoying teen, arms flailing in broad gestures.

Grinning, Anteros ducked a flying hand. “Pfft. What about you? _‘He has all the luck he needs,’"_  Anteros intoned in mocking imitation of her words. “Yeah, but is it _good_ luck? Or bad?”

Tyche hummed and rolled the ball back and forth on the back of her hand.

Anteros laughed. “Yeah. Thought so.” He leaned in. “Can I see it again?”

Tyche grinned, a flash of white in her olive-skinned face. “Why not.” The ball spooled from her fingers like a yo-yo. Anteros watched, fascinated, as the pendulum began to circle. “Dear, dear,” Tyche said. “Just spinning in circles. But… ah. There.”

The sparkling orb’s orbit changed course, great elliptical swings. “So close to disaster or victory,” Anteros murmured. “Just look at that.”

“He’s something else, isn’t he,” Tyche said.

“Does Eros even know how lucky he is?” Anteros asked.

Tyche caught up the ball, the glow of the spark within now so strong that blue light leaked between her fingers. She laughed. “Not a clue.”

 

 

“Martin, are you still thinking?”

“Mm? About what?”

“You told me - hm. How to put it? That your experiences in Canada had given you reason to reflect on your existence.”

“Yes. Yes, that and… Yes. It’s b-been quite the summer.”

“It’s just that I feel as if you've been avoiding me.”

“No! No, not that. MJN’s business is picking up. I’m sorry, but I have no control over bookings.”

“...No.”

“You’re not going to ask me to stop flying? Or… or try to take shorter flights, or maybe change airlines? Not that I think it’d be better at another firm, I’d definitely be working more, and -”

“No, Martin.”

“Really?”

“No. I’d never take that from you.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Your happiness is paramount, love. Flying - it’s part of your very soul. I think if you didn’t have it… you wouldn’t be the man I loved.”

“Oh. Can… Can I ask you, um. To do something for me?”

“Anything, darling. What would please you?”

“Huh. Oh, sorry. I was just remembering that first time. When Hermes told me that I was to be betrothed to some mysterious immortal.”

“Why the sudden recollection?”

“You said you wanted to please me. And, and the terms of our betrothal were that I was supposed to please you.”

“You do.”

“Thanks. I… I don’t think anyone’s said that about me before.”

“People are idiots but I’m not. Martin… do you remember the rest of the contract?”

“Uh. Besides me getting to fly?”

“No. You omitted a piece. ‘Love and please me,’ it said.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Um. I… I…”

“Yes?”

“I want to go flying!”

“...Pardon?”

“ With you. My request. Flying. We could go at night. Please. I’d really love to try flying with you.”

“Martin…”

“Okay. How about if you blindfold me? Would that be all right?”

“Er.”

“Eros? Will… will you take me flying?”

“But, darling, don’t we make love every night?”

“...Yes. Yes, we do. Never mind. Sorry.”

 

 

[The 6th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

 

Douglas leaned back in his chair and pushed both hands through his hair with a groan. For all that doing fuel consumption calculations was routine, he was heartily glad to be finished. He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles gone stiff from doing paperwork in MJN’s inadequate office chairs. “I’m done, cruel taskmaster. Yourself?”

Martin was sitting hunched with both elbows on the table and a pencil lax in his hand. He blinked from his reverie. “Huh? Yeah.” He made no move to gather his jacket and leave, however.

Douglas contemplated the immobile figure. Martin was normally a study in nervous energy. “Are you planning on going home soon, or will you root yourself in the cheapest plastic seats known to mortal-kind? It’s getting dark.” His tone implied, _don’t you have somewhere to go?_

Martin seemed to recover his some of his wits and looked about himself. “Right. Yes.” The burst of animation drained away. He began doodling on the form he’d finished, eyes downcast.

Martin was not the sort of person to deface official paperwork. But then, Douglas thought, Martin had been acting off for going on two weeks, his usual tetchy discourses on regulations interspersed with outbursts of irritation that were followed by what looked like, well - sadness. Douglas hadn't forgotten their disagreement about Arthur, though he'd had held his tongue more than a few times when he'd seen the two of them in some low-voiced discussion. “Lover’s tiff?”

Martin’s head snapped up, cheeks red and mouth open to deny it. He slumped. “In a way.”

Douglas hummed, indicating he was interested. Martin’s mouth turned down. “Is it really a tiff when one person won’t explain anything and just keeps you in the dark? Or is that -” He broke off and sighed.

“I assume you mean metaphorically. This is about your husband, then?”

Martin lifted a shoulder. “You don’t have to listen to me whinge, Douglas, it’s all right.”

Douglas lifted a brow. “But Sir needs to whinge. Do you need a reason? All right.” He cast his eyes up. “How about… ‘Martin, your performance these past weeks has been sub-par. I don’t pay you just to have Oscar the Grouch moping around the flight deck, I already have one Muppet in shape of my son.’”

Martin giggled a bit at Douglas’ falsetto impression. “That’s a clear falsehood, my work has been perfectly, well, standard.”

“Ah. Let’s try again. ‘Skip, what’s on your mind? It’s just you seem, oo, er, not-brilliant...’” Douglas stopped. “Sod it, I can’t do Arthur properly.”

Martin wrinkled his nose but gave him an appraising look. “No, you can’t, can you. It’s impossible for anyone to do Arthur except Arthur himself.”

“Just so. Well, moving on to the ace in the hole. ‘Hey, Chief. I might be wrong, but you’ve been morose for the bulk of Metageitnion and it’s not over losing our word games. This makes me-”

“Douglas, if you’re just going to take the piss,” Martin started but Douglas held up a hand. Martin closed his mouth, lips thin.

“This makes me, well. Concerned. And we’re friends, are we not?  So one thing you could do is pour your troubles in a sympathetic ear that’s been ‘round the block a few time when it comes to matters of the heart.” Douglas held Martin’s startled gaze. “How does that sound, my captain?”

Martin’s lips parted. He shifted in his chair, looked away then back. “Um. Okay. I… I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“So I gathered.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Douglas wrinkled his brow but made a go-ahead gesture.

“You said… you said at my party that you’ve never... That no one loves you.”

“Ah.” Douglas stood.

“Where are you going?”

Douglas cast a wry look over his shoulder as he rummaged in his locker and withdrew a bottle. Collecting two glasses, he set the lot on the table. “I think we’ll need something for what ails us in order to have this conversation. Especially if I’m expected to bare my soul before you reciprocate.”

Martin was frowning at the bottle. “Isn’t that…?”

“Lord Leverhulme’s Abhainn Dearg? Yes, it is. Is it vile green? Even so. Arthur got a little excited with the food colouring on that trip to Vulcan. Best to close your eyes when you drink.” He poured them both a generous measure. “I plan to pretend to drink by toying with my glass in an attempt at comradeship and solidarity.”

Martin groaned but accepted the glass. He sipped and grimaced. “Eurgh!”

Douglas squinted at the label. “Three year whiskey? No wonder. It’s a bit young and rough around the edges, but we all start out that way. Even me.” Douglas swirled the green liquid. “It’s true. I’ve have many a tumble in the hay, some lovely liaisons. But I’ve never married -”

“I thought you had. Three times.” Martin’s gaze was keen.

Douglas paused. “Ah. Well, I may have exaggerated the extent of the connections.”

Martin lifted both brows. “Exaggerated, meaning lied?”

“You malign me. Mutually satisfactory cohabitation, then.” Douglas shrugged in self-deprecation. “They didn’t last.”

“Why not? You’re nice.” Douglas couldn’t help his grin at Martin’s instinctive rejoinder. Martin flushed. “When you’re not… not putting on that act.”

“What act?” Douglas cocked his head, still smiling.

Martin gestured with his glass. “That. That act. The world-weary, sarcastic, sophisticated charmer. The one who thinks people are impressed by the.. by the number of lovers you've had. You’re more than that, I _know_ it.”

The statement pushed Douglas back in his chair. Martin pressed his advantage. “You’re always going on about your conquests. What about love?”

Wrong-footed, Douglas spoke without thinking. “I never loved them.” Martin drew in a sharp breath. Douglas avoided his gaze and swirled his glass again. “Entanglements. They never end well when the feelings are one-sided.”

Martin’s mouth shaped an _oh_. Douglas shrugged. “You put your precisely finger on it, my captain. I’ll boast about my past history but I’m not proud of it.” He lifted his glass, examining the greenish tint the whiskey gave his fingers through the glass.

Martin looked at his own glass, his voice low. “I guess you did the right thing, if you couldn’t return their feelings. You can’t live a lie in a relationship.” Douglas twitched, pricked by Martin’s comment. “Poor things. They never had a chance, Douglas. You might have loved them back, if you’d known they saw the real you. The one behind the charm act.”

Douglas’ mouth tightened. “A palpable hit. Again.”

Martin was silent a moment. “You’re always going on at me to pray to change my luck. Why don’t you?”

Douglas grimaced. “I don’t pray. Well, except the once.” He saluted Martin with his glass. “Maybe you should do it for me. You’re the one with the direct connection. Ask Tyche this: if Douglas Richardson is so blessed with fortune, why has love passed him by?”

“You don’t pray to Tyche for that, you pray to -”

“Eros, yes, I know. No, no, don’t ask on my behalf. It’s not going to make a difference at this point in my life. My ‘charm act’, as you put it, is so ingrained that it’s probably impossible for anyone to pierce it. But thank you for the thought, Martin.” Douglas clinked his glass to Martin’s. “You have a good heart, trying to help an old satyr like myself.”

Martin smiled but his eyes were concerned. “Everyone deserves love, Douglas.”

Douglas swallowed at Martin’s sincerity. “Thank you again. But you've enough love in your marriage for both of us.”

Martin’s shoulders hunched. He took another sip of the green whiskey. His gulp was audible in a room gone quiet.

“Don’t you, Martin?” Douglas probed. “You've always given the impression that your marriage was happy, if unconventional.”

Martin set his glass down, stood and began to move restlessly about the office, face averted. “I… you think it’s stupid, don’t you? I mean, you’re the one who said I should count my blessings. My perfect house, my perfect life. But it’s not, Douglas. It’s not.” He whirled to face Douglas, eyes dark with emotion.

“Martin.” Douglas half-rose from his chair but Martin began to pace again, hands flying as he tried to express himself.

“I.. I have been thinking a lot, ever since, well, the Vulcan trip. Well, before that really, but it’s all just come to a head recently. This whole situation, my marriage - I don’t know him, I don’t know my own husband, Douglas!” Martin’s breath caught, choked. “I may never know him. And, and this marriage where I only get to share a tiny part of my life with him… I can’t do it anymore.” Martin stopped dead in front of a tiny window, looking into the darkness beyond. Douglas watched Martin's dim reflection as Martin pressed a hand flat against the frame, head bowing until his expression was hidden. "I _can't."_

Douglas wanted to do something, find the words that would comfort Martin, but Martin wasn't done, fingers gripping at the window frame until the tendons stood out on his thin hand. Douglas pressed his fist to his mouth and waited. Martin’s voice was hoarse.

“I've come to realise something, Douglas. And it’s that… that I deserve to have all of him. A-and I won’t settle for less anymore. No matter what.”

Douglas was unsure where to start. “Have you -”

“Asked him to stand be with me in the day? Show himself to me? Yes. He said no. No. He says he loves me… He won’t do it for me, Douglas.” Martin voice choked to a whisper. His back was taut, his entire being a spring wound to the point of breaking. “How is that love?”

Douglas shifted to face Martin fully, elbows on his legs. He wished Martin would lift his head or turn around so Douglas could see his expression. His hands opened and closed as he tried to bring reason back into the conversation. “Martin. He’s a _god_.”

“Yeah. The god of love.” The word was bitter. “You knew that, right?”

“Yes,” Douglas admitted. “There may be some reason, a greater purpose to his actions. To see a god, a god in his glory - Martin, what if you were harmed? He could be keeping you safe.”

“I don’t care what the reasons are anymore! It’s like, like this wall between us. Together and always apart, is that how marriage is supposed to go?" Martin straightened up, his hands falling to his sides and trembling. "Because there’s not much point in being together, is there.”

Douglas’ breathing suspended. “You’re… talking about leaving him?” Disbelief tightened a band of horror around his chest. Martin’s silence hung between them. “You’re not really? You can’t be serious. Martin, that’s madness.”

Martin turned at last. His face was strained, the freckles standing out in relief on pale skin. “Help me, Douglas.”

Douglas was shaking his head. He rose to his feet and picked up his jacket. “I can’t stay here and listen to this folly.”

Martin took two quick steps to block his departure, hands outstretched. “Please, Douglas! You’re the only one who can help me!”

In a sudden fury Douglas snarled, “You’re going to get your new paramour killed, whoever it is. I hope to the skies above it’s not Arthur. Do you have any idea what’s at risk?”

“I… I think I know, yes! And it’s not Arthur, why would you ever think that?” Martin cried. “It’s... it's -”

Martin broke off with a frustrated noise. He reached out and with a hard yank on his tie that had Douglas stumbling forward, Martin plastered his mouth over Douglas’. Douglas froze as Martin wound an arm around his waist to clasp him closer, lips moving with frantic insistence over his own. For a moment Douglas responded, mouth softening under the assault as Martin pressed against him, all lithe warmth and need. A moan vibrated in his chest, released in a whisper of air before reason returned and he tore himself away, hip knocking into the table behind. He stared at Martin, gasping for air. The way Martin looked, lips pink and moist and his eyes, the wild hope. _Oh, skies above and below._

“You’re going to ruin me,” Douglas managed to squeeze past the lump in his throat. “You’re ruining me. Don’t. Don’t do this, Martin.” His hands gripped the edge of the table until the pain in his fingertips reminded him of why he was not to reach for Martin.

Martin’s eyes dimmed slightly. “Do you… do you care for me? At all?”

Douglas shut his eyes, struggling to regain control. Of himself, of the situation, he wasn't sure. “I’m your friend, always.”

“Oh.” The laugh came out a broken gasp. “B-but.. I had to try. B-because it’s you, Douglas. You. And maybe I’m making a terrible mistake, but I have to. It’s my _future_ , and I’m not willing to give up without a fight.”

Douglas forced himself to meet Martin's eyes and promptly wished he hadn't. But he clung to the table behind him, a drowning man with a spar, and didn't move.

The silence stretched. Martin's expression slowly slid to something hopeless and lost. “I thought… I hoped. Anyway.” He took a step back, then another until he bumped into the door. “Douglas, please… please think about it. I’m willing to take my chances.”

He opened the door and gave Douglas one last look, smile trembling. “I hope you are, too. See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Douglas whispered. The door closed with a soft click. Cut free from his torment, Douglas sagged into his chair. He drew a shuddering breath. “Oh. Oh, Nyx and Chaos, what am I going to do. Yes. Yes, Martin.”

In a burst of motion he stood and heaved the table on its side. Papers flew, a glass smashed with a tinkle and the whiskey bottle skittered across the floor without breaking. “Fuck,” he hissed. He tilted his head back, lips drawn back from teeth. “Are you happy?” he shouted at the ceiling. “Are you all enjoying this up there?”

With angry motions he began to clear up the mess. The glass shards went into the dustbin, the papers stacked. His hand hovered over the bottle of green whiskey before closing around it to set it upright.

 

 

[The 7th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn]

The rich voice drifted across the garden of Red Lodge Farm. “Don' be scared of what you migh’ see there… The firs’ time I saw you, knew love at first sight must be true, so true, oh so true…”

Eros balanced with his toes on the sill of the spare bedroom his house, wrenching at the sash. The window opened with a jerk and he overbalanced backwards, catching himself before painful impact in the rose bushes with a few wingbeats. “Buggering Hades. Ridic’lous window. Ridic’lous god, forgettin’ his key.” He giggled softly. “Shh. Don’t wake Martin.” Beating his wings labouriously, he flapped back to the open window. His entrance was no more graceful; a pinion feather caught in the frame and he tugged against it before disincorporating the wing without thinking. He fell on his face. _“Bugger.”_

After a moment he began singing once more, voice muffled by the carpeting, “Feel joy.. feel pain...You're in m’heart an’ it's tearing me ‘part…” He rolled over and smacked a hand over his forehead. “Stupid. Shh. Shhhhh. Martin’s sleepin’.” With Herculean effort he prised himself from the welcoming softness of the carpet and made his way to their bedroom, shoulder bumping the wall as he went his lopsided way.

The bedroom was silent. Eros felt a pang of panic. He grabbed at the draperies surrounding the bed and stuck his head through. he relaxed as he spied the curl of body under the sheets with red curls fluffing every which way on the pillow. Still here. Martin slept soundly in spite of all the noise Eros had made, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. Eros breathed in the warm sleep scent. Home, this mortal was his home. For as long as he would stay with Eros, anyway.

He eased himself to lie next to his husband, leaning up on an elbow to study him better. His heart contracted. Martin’s profile was a study of contrasts in red and white, pale skin, red nose and puffy eyelids. He’d been crying. _For me or about me? Dream on, sky god. All your fault. Idiot, idiot._

The maudlin reality of his situation swept over him again. He touched a curl, rubbing the silky threads between thumb and forefinger. “Love you, Martin,” he said, the whisper a thread of sound. “Love you. Why don’ you love me? ‘Stead, you go an’, an’ fall in love with sodding _Douglas_. Or Arthur. ‘Kay, not Arthur, but still. Why not me? You don’ like gods?”

A drop fell on Martin’s cheek and he stirred. Eros stroked the tear away with a thumb. “Sh, don’ worry. Just me. Sleep.” When Martin’s breathing had evened out again, Eros turned his head and roughly wiped the dampness from his face onto his shoulder.

“You win. You don’ like gods, s’okay. Won’t be a god. Give it up for you. Can have everthin’. Jus’... jus’ stay, love.” Eros’ head drooped, lassitude overtaking him. He wrapped himself around Martin, uncaring of how Martin’s curls tickled his face with every breath. “Don’ leave me.”

The drunken snore was stentorious. In the darkness, Martin’s eyes slitted open.

 

 

 

[The 7th day of Boedromion, year 4 of the 696th Olympiad, early autumn (August 28th 2009)]

The rattle of china roused Eros. Skies, but his head hurt. He smacked his lips a few times, trying to work some moisture into the barren desert of his mouth. If only someone would pass him that coffee he smelled. Fiery pricks of gold and red danced across the inside of his eyelids. He frowned. So bright. His whole face felt hot. What...?

Something crashed with a tinkle and then there was literal fire spattering his shoulder. He yelped and shot upright. Coffee from an overturned cup on the bedside table dripped in the sudden silence. Martin was staring at him, a napkin and cup saucer held forgotten in a hand. For a frozen moment Eros looked at his husband. Martin’s hair was a nimbus of golden flame in the morning sun streaming from windows with their curtains flung back. A thought slipped through Eros’ befuddled brain. _How gorgeous he looks today._ He couldn't help smiling at the sight.

Martin relaxed and sat on the bed. He patted the dark liquid soaking into Eros’ shirt with the napkin.

“Happy anniversary, Douglas.” His smile was nervous and a touch rueful. “Does coffee literally in bed suit you?”

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/crimsongriffin/14456822036)


	17. On His Way Down From Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagnosis: Relationship Blindness, Misrepresentation, Evasion or Dishonesty  
> Recommended: Openness and honesty. Turning on the lights literally and metaphorically will alleviate symptoms.
> 
> Unfortunate side effects may include: disbelief; pained blinking; watering eyes; a paranoid feeling of exposure; exclamations of dismay; declarations of love.

The noise Eros made could not rightly be called a scream, nor was it a groan of horror. Rather, it was an open-mouthed combination of the two as he grabbed at sheets and flung himself away from Martin's gaze, rolling to cover himself. He heard Martin’s warning shout, felt fingers grasp for his ankle - but too late. He hit the floor with a thump that knocked the breath from him.

“Douglas?” Martin’s voice was over him. “Are you all right?”

Eros groaned. Skies, his head felt as if Titans were beating the inside of his forehead. A hand plucked at the sheet and he yanked it away, tugging it more tightly over his head. “Don’t look at me!”

“Um. Okay?”

Eros huddled under under his shroud and tried to bludgeon his aching brain into cogitation. How could he retrieve the situation? Skies, what if it was too late? What if Martin had been god-stricken, his mind warped into a degree of love that wasn’t of his own volition. _No. No, think harder, sky-god. 'Douglas', he said 'Douglas'. He must have only seen the guise._ The relief made his head swim. He cleared his throat and essayed a chagrined tone, trying to counter the effect of his embarrassing exodus from the bed.  “Ah. You got me. It’s Douglas. I, well. I wasn’t myself last night." _Oh, ha, ha, understatement of the year_. "Had a bit to drink after you left, fell off the wagon, so to speak. I'm afraid I don’t really know how I ended up here.”

The mattress creaked as Martin sat over him. Martin sounded less nervous and more exasperated. “I can hazard a guess. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I beg your pardon!” Eros tried to project indignation but it sounded weak even to his own ears. He rested his aching head on the rug. A gap between sheet and floor afforded him a narrow view, but all he could see were feet and toes curling into the carpet. Eros squinted at the toes. Martin had a few fine ginger hairs on his biggest. Why had he not noticed that before? _How cute._ He pushed the distraction away. “Well. Breaking into houses, not in my usual line.”

“You... somehow mistook my house for yours and wound up in my bed?”

Eros grasped at this. “Yes! I, er, decided that I’d..." _Could he?_ Yes, Eros, decided, he could. "I'd help you after all. With your… problem. Taking you away from your husband." Yes. Yes, that would... that would be fine. His head might feel like his intellect was leaking away like wine in a cracked cup, but he did remember what he'd said the night before over a sleeping Martin. He'd give up being the god of love. He'd be Douglas for Martin, if that's what Martin wanted - because Martin didn't love Eros. _No one has ever loved the real you, no one ever will. You don't deserve it._  Eros shoved down the rising despair. He would still have Martin. It would be enough. He gathered both wits and the Douglas-persona, adopting a more commanding tone. "We’d better hurry, my captain. Get a bag and some things together.”

The toes flexed into the carpet again. “Oh. Will you help me pack?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s great,” Martin said, and now he was fully exasperated. “It’ll go much faster, since you know where everything is. This being your home as well as mine, _Eros_.”

 _Shit. Shit_. “No, not quite right, though I can see how you might confuse me for a love-god. It’s really Douglas.”

“Douglas.” Martin’s voice was flat. “Douglas, the smooth-talking smarm-god. Who, incidentally, would never cower like a panicked blancmange on my bedroom floor.” There was so much truth in that sentence that Eros found himself offended. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No,” Eros allowed. “But satisfy my curiosity. What makes you think I’m your husband?”

“For the gods’ sake, I can’t talk to you when you’re hiding like this!” Martin’s foot moved to lift the edge of the sheet. Eros’ hand shot out and grasped his ankle.

“No!”

“All right,” Martin soothed. “Okay. You… you just stay there. I’ll talk to the... to the sheet.” Eros retracted his hand. “Um. Well, there’s lots of reasons why I called you my husband. Because you are, aren’t you.” Eros said nothing and the silence stretched. Martin blew a breath. “Okay. Well, at the end of the long list, there’s the fact that I woke this morning next to a man I’d never seen before. A man wearing a shirt stained with reeking green whiskey and... and my co-pilot's trousers.”

 _Oh. Oh, shit. Martin_ had _seen_ him?  Was he already falling under Eros' influence, had his mind been god-tainted?  _Oh, skies._ Eros shut his eyes. “How do you know I'm not just a random stranger who saw this Douglas, beat him senseless and stole his clothes?”

“Oh, ye _gods._ " Eros allowed a smidgen of hope into his heart before Martin bludgeoned it flat. "That's not really... Eros, I hope I know you well enough after a year to  understand you'd never do such a thing.”

The trust implied in Martin's words dug claws into Eros's heart. _Martin, Martin, no, don’t_. If Martin knew how little he could trust him...

“And aside from everything else, I _heard_ you. Last night.”

“You weren’t asleep?” Minor outrage sparked in Eros. Martin made a noise of negation. “Oh. Oh, skies. You weren’t asleep.” If Eros hadn’t been so intoxicated, he might have noticed that Martin hadn’t been making that odd whuffling snore of his. _He’d been awake._ “The whole time?”

“How do you expect anyone to sleep when a singing housebreaker climbs in your bed, mutters drunk confessions and cries all over your face?” Martin asked.

“It was not all over your face! Why didn't you say anything? It could’ve been a real burglar!”

“Most burglars don’t have the unmistakable voice of my husband. Most burglars wouldn't go for a first storey window without a ladder,” Martin pointed out. “And I… I was waiting.”

“Waiting for your husband to come home?”

“No, Eros.” Eros pressed his cheek into the carpet at the ache in Martin’s voice. “No. I was waiting for you to finally tell me the truth. I’ve been pushing at you for weeks. Why couldn’t you tell me?”

“I…” Eros expelled a breath. Martin _had_ seen him. _And he still hasn't said he loves me. So much for my vaunted powers._ For a brief moment Eros wished with all his wretched heart he was just plain Douglas. “How long have you known?”

The foot shifted, toes clenching. “I guessed something was off ages ago. And... and I had a little chat with Arthur. You remember that day you saw us hugging?”

“Ah.” Eros contemplated. In retrospect, he'd overreacted. Like a jealous husband, in fact.

“Yes. Though why you couldn’t have said something then? For a while I actually thought -”

“That Arthur was me? Skies, Martin! Arthur couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag!”

“No! I thought maybe he was spying on me for... for you. It was creeping me out," Martin said.

"Heavens, Martin! Arthur is even less likely to pull off being a spy," Eros protested. "I'd never -" He bit his wayward tongue. He hadn't asked Arthur to watch Martin's every move, but hadn't he done the same himself? Skies, he was revolting. Why was Martin even still here?

"Even you must have noticed how odd he got around me sometimes?" Martin said, ignoring the slip. "And then for a while, I thought he had some sort of crush on me. He got so upset when others were, well, acting interested in me in a, um, overly-familiar way. Douglas - er - yourself included."

Eros hm'ed. He was arrogant enough not to feel threatened by _Arthur_ romantically. Besides, it had been amusing to let Arthur run off Eros' potential competition, even if meant he got in the way of Douglas' flirting. Arthur's intentions had been of the best kind and it'd kept Eros from overstepping his role.

"But it turns out he really was looking out for me. He told me about... about his father.”

“Right.” Gordon Shappey was an adulterous bastard that had never prayed to Eros or enjoyed his truest blessings - hence, Arthur's protective streak towards Martin. He shifted. The carpet really was beginning to itch but he wasn't ready to emerge. Perhaps he could hide under the bed? No, that would be cowardly for a god. Not like hiding under a sheet.

"And then there were the presents," Martin said inexorably. He was laying out evidence like Inspector bloody Morse, so logical and collected that Eros wondered about his state of mind. Martin didn't _seem_ god-struck. But at least he was still here, still talking to Eros.

“That's not very specific.”

“Pyjamas with clouds on them, the gloves you bought me for winter solstice...” Martin said. “Weird, isn't it? How Arthur and I have so many items of clothing that match?"

"I suppose." Eros shifted to rub his forehead. "Coincidence."

"Not really," Martin said dryly, and was he amused? He was, the bastard. Drawing this out and tormenting Eros was funny? Eros opened his mouth to protest but Martin shifted topics. "Remember how surprised I was that Arthur was such an amazing matchmaker? Second only to yourself, of course.” Eros groaned, knowing where this was going. “Turns out he was taking lessons, kind of. From Douglas Eros Richardson. Your days off must have been incredibly tedious, _hiding_ from me -”

“I wasn’t hiding, I… fine, yes, we met up sometimes, chatted about things.” Eros couldn’t just switch off being a love-god, after all. Helping Arthur pair off his friends had been a vicarious pleasure.

“Meddler," Martin said so fondly that Eros clenched his sheet to keep from reaching for him. "And besides chatting, you went shopping, Arthur said. Got a few gifts for me, even. Like pyjamas. Arthur liked them so well, he got a set for himself. You have excellent taste.”

“Fine. Is that the bulk of the evidence leading you to think that.. that I'm Douglas and your husband Eros both?" Eros said as sarcastically as he could manage. "A stained shirt, ridiculous pyjamas...”

"And an ugly rainbow bandanna," Martin reminded him.

 _Oh, bollocks._ He remembered Martin’s face, blindfolded with bright cloth, crying out his pleasure in a hotel room and clenched his teeth against a rush of longing. "Bandanna?"

“A bandanna that Arthur showed me in Kamloops. A bandanna exactly like the one left in my hotel room, that was used to... anyway. Where would my husband get such a distinctive thing? Maybe from certain cowboy shop that... that Douglas had visited, or from Arthur himself. One of his daft gifts, maybe. But still. It could only mean that Arthur was you... or you were - you.”

"I... see. Are you finished?"

“Well, I could repeat more about the stranger in my bed, or the drunk confession and crying, but you seem a little embarrassed, Eros, being that you've not come out from your blanket burrito since you first woke up,” Martin said. "I wish you would."

“Ah.” Eros’ heart sank. _Yes, that._ "So. You saw me."

"Yes!" Martin's foot jigged with annoyance.

Martin still hadn't professed his love. _Sod it,_ Eros thought. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. If Martin could accept his being Douglas - and against all logic, he didn't seem angry about it - he might accept Eros as he was. Or rather, as he would be, since he wouldn't be a love-god much longer. It didn't matter as long as Martin stayed. There was still one thing, however. He cleared his throat.

“How, er. How do you feel right now?”

“Um. Besides annoyed?” Martin said.

Cautiously Eros asked, “No overwhelming passion?"

"Uh. No?"

 _All right, perhaps it wasn’t too late for Martin’s free will._   "How about burning desire?"

"No," Martin said, drawing out the vowel.

"Would you like to have some sex, perchance?”

“I don’t think now’s the time, do you?” Martin’s voice was tart.

Better and better. Martin’s feet curled over each other. Eros couldn’t help himself - he stretched and touched Martin’s big toe. It twitched. He grasped it between thumb and forefinger, rubbing. Martin giggled nervously but didn’t pull away. Eros drew in a long breath. Now came the real test. “Are you ready to quit flying now?”

“What?” Martin yelped. “No, of course not! Anyway, that was part of our arrangement, you promised - why are you laughing?”

He was, helpless chuckles that shook him. Oh, thank Nyx, Martin wasn’t god-stricken, Eros couldn’t have borne it if he had been. Instead, Martin was wholly himself, the uptight, funny, determined, sweet thing he’d always been. “Nothing,” he gasped. “It’s nothing. I’m lying on the floor under a sheet petting your toe. I’m in love beyond all reason. It’s a reasonable specimen of a toe. It has hair on it and I love it because it’s your toe. I’m past all hope. I love you.”

“Oh gods, Eros, please will you come up here?” Martin begged. He sounded frantic. "You can't say that, not like this, not with you hiding under a sheet, please!"

“All right, all right." His laughter subsided. "Let me just cover up.”

“For the sake of the heavens, I’ve already _seen_ you! And you can't possibly cover up more!”

“I'm not playing coy, Martin, it's just...”  _I'm still worried about my possible undisguised effect on you, I want to keep you just as you are._ "It's for my piece of mind."

"Okay?" Martin was confused.

With care Eros unwound himself from the sheet and sat up. He looked down - yes, there was Douglas’ large chest under the open uniform shirt with its smattering of curling hair, the powerful arms and capable hands. Not a bad guise at all, this body. He rolled his shoulders, smoothed back his mussed hair and looked at Martin. “Well?”

“Very handsome.” Martin’s lips parted in a smile. “You know, I, uh. I was always a bit jealous of your, well, looks. The perfect pilot. And, and, if I hadn’t been married… anyway. Gods, look at you, Douglas Richardson in my bedroom. Why am I so lucky? Come up, sit beside me.” He scooted back against the headboard and held out an arm in invitation but Eros shook his head, settling himself on the bed in front of Martin instead.

“I’ve a bone to pick with you, Martin Crieff.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “What now?”

“You… you set out to deliberately see me in person, in spite of my warnings and outright saying you couldn’t. You defied your _god_.”

Martin’s brows drew together. “You’re not my keeper! And you’re not my… okay, you’re my god, but you’re also my husband!”

“You little idiot,” Eros growled. “Don’t you realise the risk you took? What if you’d lost your reason? What if you’d become so enamoured that everything else faded into insignificance, including your flying? I’d never be able to handle the guilt if that happened!”

“It was my risk to take!” Martin shot back at him, flushing. “I had to do it, I took the chance because you wouldn't! Someone had to be brave enough to try, and, and it wouldn't have changed the way I feel about you! So, so, so _there!_ Who’s the idiot now, huh?”

“What?” Eros said, dumbfounded.

“I’m already in love with you! It doesn’t matter if you’re Douglas or, or Eros or whatever! Don’t you see, I’d love you no matter what!” Martin was leaning forward with hands clenched as if just restraining himself from either pulling him in for an embrace or pummelling sense into him. “What I mean is, I’m crazy about you. If I went mad seeing you, it wasn’t going to change anything! I wouldn’t even have noticed the difference! Or, or cared! I want _all_ of you.”

Eros gaped. The ache in his chest began to warm just a little. “Do you mean that?”

Martin pulled at his hair in agonised frustration. “Yes! For the sake of the heavens, please will you just… just let me see you?”

Eros took a breath. The guise began to slip away. Martin watched, mouth open a little, breath quickening. Eros flushed with unaccountable shyness. _Ridiculous in a being of my age and suavity._ He’d never felt this exposed while sitting mostly clothed with another person. “All right?”

Martin grinned. “Still think you’re a berk not telling me ages ago. Keep going.”

“Martin,” Eros said in warning, though his heart began to beat faster. “No mortal can withstand my full presence. I don’t want to -”

“Didn't I just say I didn't care if... if it made me love you more? I'm already madly in love." Martin scooted forward and took Eros' hand squeezing it, his smile tremulous. "I... I’d even give up flying for you,” Martin said. The impact of the statement was a punch in Eros’ chest. “Go on.”

 _Trust me,_ he meant. _Show me._ Eros let blaze of Martin's determination bolster him. He _had_ to do this or let his cowardice taint their relationship forever. He relaxed and let himself _\- be._

Martin’s face glowed with wonder, his hand lax in Eros’. “Martin?” Eros asked.

“Uh?” Martin shook his head as if to clear it. Eros released his hand and leaned back on an elbow in an assumed casual pose.

“Don’t you think I’m the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?” He knew well the appearance he presented - fit, well-muscled, chocolate dark eyes and hair - the full flower of manhood. Even in a partial guise his very presence exuded dangerous amounts of sexual passion and love.

Martin’s eyes were running up and down the length of his body as if mentally stripping away the wrinkled pilot’s uniform. He wet dry lips. “What?” The clear grey eyes returned to Eros’ face at the question.

Eros felt the prickle of foreboding. “Tell me what you think, dearest.”

Martin smiled, besotted. “I _love_ you.”

Eros’ stomach turned over. “Do you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I adore that beauty mark by your mouth.” Martin nodded a few times, his smile loopy with happiness. His brows drew together. “Your chin is a lot pointier than I’d imagined. Huh. I didn’t expect that. I mean, when I felt it in the dark -”

“What?” Eros exclaimed. “ _What?_ ”

Martin looked panicked. “Oh, oh shit, I mean, yes, you are very attractive, but maybe not the most handsome - oh, gods, just strike me down right now.” He buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean it!”

Eros made a sound halfway between a sob and a whoop. Laughing, he dragged Martin atop him in a flurry of flailing limbs and a knee to his thigh that made him grunt. “You mean you don’t love me?”

Martin braced his arms on either side of Eros’ head. “No, I meant that. I do love you but -” The words were cut off as Eros rolled him over with a kiss. Martin returned the frantic open-mouthed presses as best he could between Eros’ chuckles. Eventually he gave up and let his head fall back while Eros buried his face against Martin’s shoulder and wheezed with laughter and relief.

When his breath returned, Eros mumbled, “I’m so sorry.”

Martin’s hands ran possessively up and down the curve of his husband’s back. “I can’t believe you put us both through that. And surprised you just didn’t use an arrow on me.”

Eros nuzzled the soft spot beneath Martin’s ear. “It would have been easier." But this triumph, finding that he preferred Martin as he was and having Martin return his love made the travail that came before worth it. Oh, he'd won, won Martin, and even managed to win the bet. Love reigned supreme. He couldn't _wait_ to tell his cousin.

Martin turned his head to allow Eros better access. “I am so angry with you right now.” His loving tone belied his words. “I ought to run off with ‘Douglas’ just to prove a point.”

“You can still run off with ‘Douglas’ if you want,” Eros returned. He pressed a last kiss and moved to the side, letting his guise flicker into place. When he spoke, his tone was Douglas’ rich baritone. “I may have been a little inebriated last night, Martin. But I assure you, I was quite willing to give up my role as the god of love and live as if I were mortal Douglas Richardson.” He winked the famous Richardson wink and Martin snorted.

“Wouldn’t that be the headline of the decade.” Martin turned on his side to face him, eyes were soft. He ran fingers through the smooth greying hair. “Though I love you like this too. No more pretending, please.”

“Except in bed?” He waggled his eyebrows Douglas-style.

Martin grinned. “Yes, except then, First Officer.” He wriggled closer, tangling his legs with Eros’. Eros chuckled his wicked Douglas laugh and scooped him closer but Martin stiffened in his arms. “Wait. Wait. D-did you say you were going to give up being the god of love?”

Eros didn’t dare to so much as blink. “Yes, I did.”

Martin’s eyes held his gaze, searching their depths. “F-for me?”

“Of course, darling.” Eros smiled.

“ _Douglas_ ,” Martin said.

It was probably the Douglas-smile that gave him away, Eros reflected. Apparently the ‘act’ was all too easy to see through if one was married to a Martin. _A Martin who loves you_ , his heart sang, _and that’s why you’ll never get away with tricking him again. He sees through you, he sees_ you.

He supposed it was worth it.

“Douglas,” Martin said again, and why did it sound so right, Martin saying Eros’ assumed name with the old familiar suspicion? Eros throttled the urge to laugh. _Douglas,_ he imagined Martin saying, _what have you done now, no, don’t try to put me off, I’m your captain - I know you._  

Martin caught his eye. “Douglas, please. Explain yourself. Don't... don't hide from me any more.” His voice wavered.

And just like that, with a searing flash of shame, Eros knew he was done. Done with the whole sodding charade. He'd done enough to Martin, so much that he'd gratefully spend a lifetime making it up to him. Eros rolled away to sit up and rubbed his hands down his aching face. “Yes, my captain. But you’re not going to like it. Come on, love. I think I’d better soften you up first in the time-honoured fashion of grovelling lovers everywhere by making you a hot breakfast first.” He extended a hand and helped Martin up.

 

 

Martin didn’t like it. No surprises there. Eros would be damned if he let his folly poison their marriage any further, but the truth was still painful. Over omelettes, sausages and several cups of coffee, Eros poured forth the tale. The narrative was punctuated with exclamations of amusement, shock and fury from Martin.

"You mean, you were the one sitting with that, that slick catamite waving a dildo?"  Eros roared with laughter and promised himself Pothos would hear his husband’s opinion of his guise-style later.

“A bet. A bet.” Martin had real trouble swallowing that part. “I was a bet. You bet you could make me fall in love with you. This whole thing was, was a _bet_.”

“Dearest, parroting the word ‘bet’ isn't going to change it.” Martin glared but subsided muttering. Eros went on with his confession.

Martin held up a hand to halt the explanation. “Okay, so you thought you’d been infected with longing. But really - marriage?” Eros drew a steadying breath. Besides wanting Martin for perfectly natural and lustful reasons, it had made sense to marry Martin. It kept him near and limited Martin’s opportunities to find love elsewhere. No, he wasn’t proud of that.

Nor was was he proud of how, as Douglas, he’d arranged to make Martin so unhappy at MJN, so insecure in his skills as a pilot that he’d quit flying and thus spend more time with Eros. The drinks trolley surfing, the cat, the photos, the botched landing with the brakes on...  The recitation of all the small humiliations Douglas had heaped on Martin made Eros feel small and sick.

“And… and you... Douglas.” Martin gulped and set his utensils down. “You… at night, you comforted me. I was so happy. But, b- but you also encouraged me to go in and make a fool of myself. _You_ gave me the idea to try and bully Douglas… I mean you… and make you call me ‘Sir.’ And then in Qikiqtarjuaq…” He covered his mouth with his hand, the grey eyes pained before he dropped his gaze to his plate.

"I know. I’m so sorry." Eros approached Martin with caution, but Martin turned and grasped his shirt, burying his face against his stomach. Eros ran gentle hands over Martin's shoulders and took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. Martin wasn't rejecting him, he wasn't leaving. What Eros had done to deserve such forbearance, such an extraordinary human, he'd never know.  "Don't forgive me. It was cruel and needless. I haven’t forgiven myself for trying to kill what was best and brightest in you. But that trip to Qikiqtarjuak, I _saw_. I couldn't go on after that.”

Martin’s voice was muffled against his shirt. “I did wonder. You, I mean Douglas… you were much, well. I wouldn't say less sarcastic, but definitely nicer. After... after that. It made me think.”

Douglas tugged a curl, trying to distract him. “You can't say you did get your own back, after all. Bashing my ginger beer. Finagling a salary. You had both of my selves worried, the way you’d gone all secretive and odd. But you handled everything magnificently.” Eros bent and kissed the bright head. "I hope you won't take it amiss if I tell you I'm proud of you."

Martin sat back and glared at him. “You… you made me work for it, didn’t you? All that stuff I accomplished. You didn’t make it easy, play-acting a... an oblivious _jerk_."

"It wasn't easy," Eros said on a sigh. "Acting oblivious."

“But not the jerk part! You made me _work_ for your apology!”

“A little. But my apology was sincere. I was and am very sorry for how I treated you. And may I also say you made an attractive scoundrel with your open shirts and stubble? It was all I could do to keep my hands off you in the flight deck.”

“You and Laird Leverhulme’s son,” Martin shot back and managed a snicker at Eros’ growl. “Okay. What about the exploding toilet?”

Eros sighed and sat back down. “My own influence has nothing to do with your bizarre turns of luck, Martin. Why do you think I kept imploring you to pray?”

“Blue-footed booby,” Martin muttered and attacked his sausages. Eros sniggered.

“Darling, you’ll saw through the plate like that. And I did save the day, didn’t I?”

Martin popped the bite of sausage in his mouth. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “And so all this time, you were in fact with me all the time. Watching out for me.” He twiddled his fork, uncertain. “Um. So - the Vulcan trip. Would you have given yourself away - I mean, would you have saved me if… if I’d come too close to dying?”

The coffee cup trembled in Eros’ hand. He set it down and blinked as the handle came away in his hand. Martin's eyes widened. “Martin,” Eros said. “I don’t think you want to know. I don’t think anyone wants to know what I’d be capable of, or what I’d have done if you died on that fucking trip.” He continued staring at the piece of china in his grip.

A hand crept into his field of vision, pulled the handle away and curled around his. “I didn’t. You saved me. With Arthur’s help. And the peanut butter.”

Eros lifted Martin’s hand and kissed it in a gallant gesture. “Anything for you, my captain.”

Martin’s mouth curled. “Including doing everything in your power to stay near me. You are ridiculous. I was fine, you didn’t have to.”

Eros used his leverage on Martin’s hand to reel him close enough to nibble small kisses along his jaw. “Au contraire. It was completely needful, in case you’d forgotten our night together.”

“Wasn’t talking about that,” Martin murmured. “I was talking about how you stayed with me in the hospital, holding my hand.”

Eros drew back. “You were sleeping!”

“Ah,” Martin crowed. “Got you!” Grinning so widely that his eyes were squeezed to slits, Martin’s triumph was so palpable that Eros could only return the smile. “Besides, there was my phone.”

“Your phone?”

“Loads of texts from Hermes, of all people, and not one message from my loving, my frantically worried husband.” Martin smirked. “You didn't send any. Because -”

“Because I was bit busy keeping your insides from killing you, landing a plane -”

“Eating fried testicles! And going shopping for gay cowboy accessories with Arthur!”

Eros threw up his hands. “Yes, yes! Don’t forget I was also worrying myself so distracted that I made several errors in judgement that led us -’”

“Here,” Martin said. “It led us here.” He lifted his chin. “With my detective work.”

“And a bit of derring-do,” Eros finished. “Don’t be smug. I’m giving credit where it’s due for once. Am I ever going to be allowed to forget this?”

“Not a chance,” Martin said cheerfully. “It’ll be nice to have the memory of my triumph to cling to when I’ve lost the cheese tray yet again or when some other bizarre misfortune lands me in it knee-high. Sorry, Douglas, but I need it.”

“Blue-footed booby,” Eros breathed, and dodged the corner of toast Martin flung, chuckling. “Come, my irascible darling. The weather’s fine. Let’s get cleaned up and go for a walk.”

 

 

Showering with Eros was lovely. Showering with Eros as Douglas with the bathroom window open and sun streaming in was a whole new realm. It wasn't a fantasy Martin had ever entertained before, but he willingly let himself be backed against the tiles and caged in by Douglas’ larger form. The thrill of the illicit mingled with a heady feeling of _rightness_ as his first officer cupped Martin's head and drew him to his softly smiling mouth.

Martin kept his eyes open, droplets clinging to his lashes and running into his mouth as he gasped open-mouthed, drinking in all the sights he’d been denied so long. Douglas’ dark eyes were half-lidded, hair darkened and slick. The murmured wicked commentary sent jolts of arousal skittering up Martin’s spine as Douglas’ hand clasped their erections together and wanked them with maddening slowness. And when Douglas’ face went slack, mouth falling open as he groaned Martin’s name, it sounded like a prayer.

 

 

They dressed between lingering kisses and caresses. Still in Douglas-shape, Eros managed to squeeze into the few pieces of clothes his Eros-self had hanging beside Martin's but left the top button on the trousers open, covering the gap with a belt. Even so, he could swear he heard a few stitches pop in the shoulders of the button-down shirt. He must look ridiculous. But Martin only smiled up at him, not even looking at the way the buttons strained over Douglas' girth. Eros heaved a put-upon sigh but his lips curved up. If Martin was happy with this guise, he'd keep it.

They made their way out, taking a track that led through farmer’s fields. _Strange_ , Eros thought, _how familiar it felt._ In a lovely way. Martin’s shoulder brushed his as it so often had when they’d walked together as captain and first officer. Martin twined his hand with his and smiled up at him, nudging him with his elbow.

“We can do this now.”

“Yes,” Eros said, throat tight. “We can.” He squeezed Martin’s hand.

They spread their jackets and sat with their backs against one of the trees skirting a field where sheep grazed. “Smells rural,” Martin joked.

“Don’t be snobbish. This is a fine, classical scent,” Eros responded. “Reminds me of when the world was younger.”

“Dirt, dung, sheep…” Martin leaned his head on Eros’ shoulder. Eros buried his nose in ginger curls and took an exaggerated sniff.

“Post-coital lads. Yes, just like the old days,” he said happily.

Martin snorted. His eye fell upon a small flower and he plucked it up and twirled it before presenting it.

"Clover for prosperity."

Douglas took it with a smile. "You had one of these on our wedding night. Portents and signs." He threaded behind the curls of Martin's ear. "My brave husband."

Martin laughed and linked their hands again, gazing across the fields. He sighed.

“A bet.”

Eros grimaced. “Well, there’s no changing the past.”

“And luck. Imagine if I'd never been at that pub."

“Yes,” Eros mused. His mouth opened as a memory surfaced, Tyche’s sly smile swimming in his vision as she’d patted his cheek. “ _He has all the luck he needs,_ ” she’d said. Martin’s luck, its wild swings from bad to unbelievably, once-in-a-lifetime good. Eros felt annoyance and amusement bubble up within. She’d known all along, damn her. “Just your luck, which we all know is infamous.” He released Martin’s hand and draped an arm over his shoulders, pulling him in tight.

“Mm.” Martin was quiet a moment. Eros felt the tension as Martin started winding up again. He puffed a silent laugh.

“A bet, a sodding bet! Honestly, Douglas, if -"

"Darling, really, the bet was an _excuse -"_

 _"-_ you ever try this again, I swear -"

"- because there you sat, and all right  -"

"- you will be sleeping on the sofa for eternity, _and_ -"

"- I was in denial but what's a love-god do when -"

"- I will take every landing from you from now on -"

"- it's love at first sight? Nyx's tits, take all the landings, I don't care!"

"- not to mention take the _entire_ cheese tray... What did you say?"

"You can have the landings. They mean a lot to you, apparently, and I can't deny you - ow!" Eros rubbed the place where Martin had pinched him.

"No. Before that," Martin said.

"It was love at first sight."

Martin was quiet. "Really?" he said at last.

"Yes." Eros shifted. “You must understand, Martin. I would've done my best to win you, bet or no.” He grimaced. “You're right. Involving you in the wager was a terrible thing. But - it kept me from... well."

“Shooting me in the arse with an arrow,” Martin finished. "Making me a, a kind of love-zombie."

“Exactly,” Eros said in a low voice. “And I would have cheated myself as much as you. You would've given up flying. That... would not be the man I fell in love with."

“I guess... I guess it did work out, when you put it like that. Serendipity. All right.” Martin played with Eros’ free hand, sliding his fingers between until they slotted together. “I tried not to love you, you know.”

“I’m aware. I don’t hold it against you. You were right not to.”

“I knew it was a losing battle after that night in Kamloops. And then I was so upset and confused… And then there was that enlightening chat with Arthur.”

“And the clues fell into place. So I went through Hades for weeks believing I was losing you. Did you do that on purpose?”

“No!” Martin was indignant. “Not really. Well, maybe a little. I... it was hard for me.”

Eros exhaled heavily. “Again, well within your rights to punish me. Leaving me for Douglas, egads.”

“Let’s not think about that any more.” Martin leaned up to brush his lips over Douglas’. “For today anyway.” He smirked at Eros’ groan.

“You’ll never let me forget it.”

“I will. For weeks at a time, even."

“Fair enough."

"B-but... I do forgive you.”

The last of his tension drained away, leaving Eros feeling lighter than he had in thousands of years. Skies, but he was lucky. "Thank you.” He rested his head atop Martin’s curls, enjoying the slight weight resting against him. Martin wasn’t finished, though, as the comfortable silence was broken with his next words.

“P- probably would have loved you anyway. You gave me flight, you know.”

Eros made a low noise of negation. “No, darling. All I did was try to keep you from it because I'm a selfish sod and a clot. No, Martin, unless you meant it as a sweet metaphor for love, I most certainly did not help you fly.”

Martin straightened to turn and face him, Eros releasing him with reluctance. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Eros frowned at him. “Remember what?”

Martin ran a hand through his curls. “Oh, gods, I suppose you wouldn’t, I mean, it was years ago. Well, maybe not so long ago for someone like you.”

“Yes, yes, I’m an ancient being and you’re a mere stripling in comparison, no need to belabour the point," Eros said with some testiness. "What is it I’m meant to remember?”

“When I was a child. I met you when I was six. You must remember the story, I told it to… to Douglas, I mean, you. On the night of my stag do?”

A glimmer of memory came to Eros. “Oh. Hang on a moment.”

Martin opened his hands. “I was playing in a field, pretending to be an aeroplane…”

“And I saw this little chap in a blue shirt with a spark so bright it caught my eye even from on high and dropped down to investigate, yes!" Eros took in Martin’s expectant face and blinked. _Serendipity strikes again._ “Skies above.”

Martin nodded. “You told me… you told me to become a pilot. That I would never be alone if I flew.” He swallowed. “And, and it’s true. S-so how could I not love you? You, you gave me the determination to, to follow my dream. T-the things you say you love me for, all of that. I became a pilot because of you.”

“Martin,” Eros breathed.

“And, and flying with you, b-being with you, I learned so much. About flying and, well, about having confidence in myself.” Martin choked a laugh. “You, you helped me be a better pilot. A better person. S-so, even if I have rotten luck the rest of my life, I’d still thank the gods that they sent you to me. Because you’re just what I needed." He smiled. "And, and I love you, Douglas Eros Richardson.”

Eros reached for him and Martin clambered into his lap, clutching fistfuls of jacket. They kissed, fervent and deep until they were both gasping. With his eyes closed, Eros could still see Martin’s spark blazing as he told Martin everything he felt without words. They kissed and all fell into its proper place. Finally Martin drew back and rested his forehead on Eros’, ginger lashes fanning his cheeks. Eros rocked them both gently, arms and heart full.

“Love you too, darling. Skies, how I love you.”

 


	18. Edinburgh and Epilogues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the wager, Carolyn and Arthur learn (not quite) all, and a word game is played.

 

[The 12th day of Boedromion, Year 1 of the 697th Olympiad]

The skin on the back of Martin’s neck prickled as he entered the pub. It was not the sort of place he’d ever think of frequenting, filled as it was with toughs, cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled beer. A telly blaring a football commentary garnered most patron’s attentions, however, and few spared him a glance as he spied Douglas at a table with a dreadlocked woman. With relief he made his way over to them.

“...but he just snapped at me that he was still the captain and stole my landing! Managed it in a mean crosswind as well, it was quite the thing. Not that I didn’t think he could. But you’d think he’d let a _literal_ sky-god -”

“Love god,” Martin corrected, sliding into a seat. “Telling tales, darling?”

“Yes, dear. Were your ears burning?” Douglas gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Oh, thank the stars,” the woman said. “I was just thinking of arranging a diversion and escaping through the toilet window. He’s been going on about you.” The flash of television glare on her glasses was like a wink.

Douglas grinned. “Martin, I’d like like you to meet someone special. This charming young lady is known around these parts as Lil’ Ty, sometimes rapper and street artist. Ty, you’ve heard plenty about my captain. Martin Crieff.”

Martin shook Ty’s hand, taking in the black sunglasses and tattoos around her forearms. “An artist?”

“Some performance stuff, juggling, you know. Graffiti, mostly. You know what they say. ‘The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls.’” She tapped the side of her nose.

“She also does a good line in fortune telling,” Douglas added.

Martin stared. “Oh. Oh!” He looked from Douglas to her, his breathing coming faster. “Not… nothing bad?”

Tyche’s grin was toothy but not unfriendly. “Nothing to worry about, sweets. Nothing you can’t handle.”

“That’s not really reassuring,” Douglas muttered but straightened at Martin’s elbow jab.

Martin was still unsettled. “I… I don’t know what to do. Or say. Should... should I pray?”

“Not when we’re mostly incognito, dearest,” Douglas said. “You could stand her a round, though. And one for me as well. I feel you’ve been neglecting your devotions to me.”

Martin blushed but raised his chin. “N-not what you said last night.” Douglas chuckled at the retort, earning him a wry smile.

“Oh, skies, you lovebirds, enough already.” Tyche said. “Come here, I want to congratulate you.” She leaned in for Martin’s hard hug.

“Thank you,” he said. She laughed and kissed him. Awed, he sat back with a thump, touching his fingertips to his mouth.

“For luck,” she said. Douglas presented his cheek as well with a smirk but she wagged a finger at him. “Nuh uh. Not you, peaches. You’re just plain trouble. On second thought, Martin, I'd better give you condolences on your luck getting stuck with this great lout.” Martin sniggered as Douglas subsided with a disgruntled look.

“I don’t see why I can’t get a kiss from Lady Luck.” Douglas said.

“Get them here.” Ty pointed at Martin. “You dole them out in small doses, Martin. Like medicine. Teach him not to get greedy.”

“Too late for that,” said another voice. Pothos took the last seat, setting his pint on the scarred table.

“Speaking of bad luck,” Douglas said. “Why are you late?”

“Needed to make a dramatic entrance, of course, don’t be stupid. I was waiting back in The Symposium for ages for just this chance.” Pothos made a flamboyant gesture. “Ta da.”

“This must be…” Martin said, eyes flicking from the newcomer to Douglas.

“My cousin,” Douglas drawled. “You may remember him as the ‘dildo wielding catamite’ from that fateful luncheon over a year back.”

Pothos grinned, unfazed by the title. “That’s me. Just call me Porthos, no one's ever got my name right since that Three Musketeers movie.” He held out a hand.

Douglas stiffened, eye his cousin's extended hand. Pothos rolled his eyes. “Settle your feathers. There’s nothing up my sleeve tonight. Really, trust me.” Douglas snorted. Martin shook the proffered hand gingerly.

“Nice to meet you, ah… Porthos.”

“You too. Round for anyone? My treat, I’m in a sterling mood.”

Martin shook his head. Douglas said with some wryness, “I’ve decided to forgo traditional godly insobriety, for various reasons.” He squeezed Martin’s knee under the table.

“Skies, you’re getting boring again!” Pothos drummed his hands on the table. “Okay. So let’s settle this thing. Need we go over the terms of the wager? You played a bit fast and loose with them, coz."

"I believe we agreed that I was to seduce and win his love in my natural form," Douglas said.

"Yeah, at _night_. But you were with him all the time." Pothos tapped his fingers on his glass in emphasis.

"It wasn't my natural form and I wasn't seducing him in daylight hours." Douglas lifted a brow.

"T-true," Martin cut in. "He wasn't exactly winning me over during the days. Rather the opposite."

"I was a sod." Douglas faced his flushed spouse, though he spoke loud enough for all to hear. "A right bastard."

The corner of Martin's mouth kicked up in acknowledgement of Douglas' showmanship, looking so charming that it was all Douglas could do not to kiss him. "Yes, you were. But you were always at least my ... my friend. A perfect gentlemen in the end as well."

Douglas did drop a kiss on Martin' temple for that, pleased. "Thank you, love."

"You're welcome, dear," Martin said, dry. He turned back to their audience. "S-so, he wasn't breaking any rules."

"Tricksy," muttered Pothos. Tyche snickered.

"Right. As if you weren't enjoying watching Douglas muck things up for himself by doing that," she said.

Pothos wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, all right. And you love him?" he asked Martin.

There was no hesitation or stutter to Martin's reply. "Yes."

“And vice-versa, he loves you, blah blah, cutesy enough to make me sick.” Porthos sipped his bitter.

"Don't be jealous," Douglas said.

“Oh, shut it, Romeo. When did the ball drop? The words,” he clarified at Martin’s confused look. “When did you tell him?”

“Uh, five days ago? The seventh,” Martin said.

“On the anniversary of our joining,” Douglas said. Tyche made a cooing noise. “I’m ready at any time to fulfill my side of the wager. I promised that if you found a mortal you wanted, I’d use an arrow on them. And yourself, if you still wish it.”

In his peripheral vision he saw Martin straighten up. There had been some words between them already about forced feelings versus free will and choice. No matter that Douglas had argued that the arrow conferred true emotion and the person was happy.  Martin had been fiercer than was his wont on the matter, having come so close to the same fate himself. He was only placated when Eros pointed out that for the most part, mortals just found their own paths to love themselves without any help. Influence here and there wouldn’t hurt, and if Martin couldn’t give up his flying, neither was Eros able to deny his own nature.

Anyway, a bet was a bet. Douglas lifted a long cardboard tube from beneath his seat. “I am willing to be generous, in fact, since the whole business has given me my greatest gift, the brightest of the bright, captain of my heart, my darling Martin.” Martin buried his red face in his hands and even Pothos choked at his bright effusiveness. Douglas placed the tube on the table. “Here. Two arrows. I realise I am placing a great deal of trust in you to use it wisely. And don't try having two lovers at once, unless you want to provide the same amount entertainment to the gods that I did. It would either be a low-budget sit-com or become ugly in short order. Probably both, knowing you, cousin.”

Pothos lifted a brow. “You call this generous? No. You  _lost_. You owe me a quiver-full and more. I’ve been dying to get my groove on as the new god of lurve.”

“I beg your pardon?” Douglas said. “I owe you nothing more than this. I won your damned wager. We're quits.”

Pothos sighed in mock disappointment. “Is that what you think? Come now, don’t think you can pull one on a trickster like myself.”

“But, but, he did win!” Martin protested. “I, I said I love him! It was a year to the day!”

Pothos wagged his finger, tsk’ing. “The wager was made on the second day of Boedromion. Your declaration was five days too late.” He flapped a hand at Douglas. “Come on, old man. Hand it over!”

Red-faced, Martin leaned forward but Douglas held up a hand. “It was a year, as the wager stated.”

“Nope. The wager began the day it was made,” Pothos insisted. He drank deeply and set his pint down with a clatter. “Well, as much fun as this has been, I think I’d like my prize now. I’ve mischief to get up to, you know. Busy, busy. Just _longing_ for some fun.”

Douglas felt his guise flicker. If his irresponsible cousin thought he was going to get hold of his powers… A hand on his sleeve pulled his attention away. Martin shook his head. _Don’t give him the satisfaction,_ Martin said with the crease of his brow.

Douglas blew a breath out. As much satisfaction as it would give him to plant Pothos a facer, it wouldn’t do for immortals to brawl in public, particularly two gods of the aspects of love. Martin wouldn’t appreciate a mass orgy the way Eros did… Or would he? He’d have to ask later. The thought of Martin’s possible reaction made him smile slightly. Martin’s brow creased further in puzzlement but Douglas only lifted a shoulder, giving tacit permission for him to go on. _  
_

Their exchange wasn’t lost on Pothos, who’d caught Douglas’ loss of control. “He really has seen you, hasn’t he? And he’s not affected?”

“I’m immune,” Martin said shortly. “Anyway. The, the terms weren’t clear. I was to fall in love with him within a year, but, but I hadn’t even met him at that point! S-so, the bet clearly was meant to begin on the day of our meeting, which was our wedding night! The seventh!”

“The boy has an excellent point,” Tyche said.

“Look at him, going all Dike of the Old Bailey on me,” Pothos grinned. “Okay, point granted. But the thing is? Touching though it might be, telling dear Douglas you loved him on your anniversary was still too late. The second of Boedromion is the second, not the seventh. It’s not my fault old Dougie here dragged his feet - why, he could’ve started chatting you up on the very day!”

Tyche sighed. Martin's mouth opened and closed a few times but he had nothing left to say. Douglas shifted back in his seat, coiling up for the battle. Pothos' smile was all edges. "Just give it up quietly, cousin. Being the god of longing won't hurt, you know, and it's not like your little mortal is going to leave you -"

“I’m bored,” Tyche said. A rubber ball appeared in her hand. Pothos stared, caught off-guard and a little wary as she began to roll it back and forth, passing it from one hand to the other. “All this talk of dates, ugh. Like that even matters. It was a year, Porthos.”

Martin watched in confusion as Pothos’ expression changed to dismay. “But Ty -”

She popped the ball up and caught it. “It’s been fun, hasn’t it? We’ve all had a great time watching these two dance around and make fools of themselves, right? No insult intended,” she added in an aside. Douglas shrugged.

“None taken.”

“And you set that up for us, sweety,” she said to Pothos. “It was some pretty spectacular entertainment. Thanks.” Her smile was toothy. Pothos’ lips curved up. “But luck, ya know? It’s just so fickle. Martin here can tell you. He’s had some amazing luck, yeah? And I like him, so he’s got some pull with me. Though he’s too nice a guy to pull strings.” She gripped the ball, fingers tightening. “So don’t push yours, sweets. It's been a year, and so I say.”

Pothos held up his hands in a warding gesture. “Okay, fine. It was a year. You win.”

“Agreed,” Douglas said quickly.

Tyche laughed. “It was fun, though. C’mon, loser, I’ll buy you a drink.” She stood and held out her elbow. Pothos snatched up the cardboard tube and took her arm. The old sly smile was back in place.

“My pleasure, Lil' Ty. Quite the lark, wasn’t it? My best trick yet.”

Douglas and Martin stood as well. “Thank you,” Douglas said with fervour to Tyche.

Tyche waved an airy hand. “Always good to have someone owe you a colossal favour, right?” Her earthy laugh trailed after as they went to dim hall that led to the toilets and The Symposium.

“Wow,” Martin said.

“Yes,” Douglas agreed. “Isn’t she just.”

“I think I have a new favourite deity,” Martin said, dreamy-eyed.

“The Hades you do,” Douglas said. “I’ll be pleased to earn your renewed devotions tonight, indifferent and cruel supplicant. As many times as it takes.” He grinned at Martin’s eye roll and held out his hand. “Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

After some discussion, Martin and Eros both came to the conclusion that they’d rather just continue living as they were. Eros would maintain his guise in public and Martin would call him Douglas for the sake of appearances.

Or as Eros put it, “While I’m happy to live quietly out of the public eye for your sake, darling, I’ll be damned if I’m going to keep my hands off you during the daylight hours now.”

“Not at work!”

“Oh, come on, have a heart. I’ve plans for that hat of yours! Think of all those flat surfaces in G-ERTI. It would be a blessing! Of a sort.”

“Oh, ye gods, no!”

 

 

 

The sticky problem of explaining their marital situation to Carolyn resolved itself when Douglas and Martin were discussing the issue one morning in the Portakabin.

“She’s not going to like it! How would you feel, knowing that in spite of being the boss and CEO, your employee is always going to have the upper hand?” Martin asked.

“This is Carolyn, after all. The first thing she’d do is find some way to try and turn it to her advantage. Not that I’d let her.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about!” Martin threw up his hands.

“You don’t go around every day worrying I’m going to love-zap you, do you?” Douglas lifted a brow, a little concerned for the answer. Martin relieved his mind with a snort.

“Too late for that. Ugh, I’m not sure I want to think about Carolyn under the influence.”

“Don’t be ageist. There’s a sandal for every foot, after all. And my second point: don’t you think she’s going to notice that we’re -”

“Affectionate with each other?”

“I was going to say, obviously infatuated and shagging each other up against every surface, but yes, all right, my reticent captain.” Douglas stretched out a long arm and plucked up Martin’s hand, rubbing the knuckles with his thumb.

“Douglas, Carolyn’s going to be here any minute!” Martin tried to tug his hand away but Douglas refused to relinquish it. “Are all the gods like you? Lacking any sense of discretion?”

“There are no gods like me, darling.” Douglas reeled his prize closer. He caught Martin’s belt loop with a finger to forestall his escape and began planting kisses on the inside of Martin’s wrist, moving upwards. Martin’s breath caught as Douglas’ hair fell forward, tickling his skin at each press. “And I’ll wager that when Carolyn knows…”

“Knows what?” Carolyn’s tone was severe.

To his credit, Douglas did not jump. A god did not jump merely because one’s employer was snake-stealthy in opening the office door. _And could be frankly terrifying at times as well, let’s not forget that,_ his more sensible hindbrain piped up. He kept hold of Martin’s hand. “Martin and I were discussing something important that we needed to tell you,” he said as smoothly as he could while Martin jerked and flailed like a hooked fish trying to free himself from Douglas’ grip.

Carolyn raised her brows at their linked hands. “Pray, do tell.”

Douglas cleared his throat and composed his face. “I am a love god. In fact, I am _the_ love god.” Over Martin’s choking protest he went on, “And Martin is my husband.” He hooked an arm around Martin’s hips to anchor him, turning him to face Carolyn. Hidden from her gaze, his thumb began stroking the edge of the waist of Martin’s trousers, teasing shirt fabric up in a quest for skin.

Carolyn’s face was absolutely blank. “The god of love. Eros.”

“Yes,” Douglas said helpfully. “That’s my name.”

“Married to Martin. You.”

“You were at the wedding. Don’t you recall I left suddenly? I needed to prepare the wedding chamber.” Douglas winked as her gaze sharpened. She turned her gimlet eye upon Martin, who was tomato red.

“Martin? Is this true?”

Martin gulped and nodded, not trusting his voice. Douglas now had untucked a tiny portion of Martin’s shirt and was taking advantage of the chink in his armor to rub tiny circles into a sacral dimple. Douglas drawled, “Really, Carolyn. It’s as if you don’t trust us. You know Martin can’t lie to save his life.” He smiled his best Douglas smile.

Carolyn sniffed. “I don’t know what you two are up to -”

“No, really, it’s true!” Martin burst out in spite of himself.

“Ha, ha, funny pilots. Don’t strain yourself. Douglas a god? Only in his own mind.”

“You’re just trying to get out of buying us an anniversary gift,” Douglas complained. “I was hoping for an alarm clock. Just thing thing to wake us up those mornings we’ve slept late.” He beamed fatuously up at Martin, who was either ready to burst with frustration or laughter.

Carolyn gave him a severe look. “Yes, and that’s another matter if you two actually are having an affair. Oh but wait - I don’t care. Do what you like in the privacy of your homes and don’t get myself or MJN involved. Yes? Fine.” She lifted her chin. “Are the flight plans filed? Good. I’m going to do the offering and when I get back, everyone’s uniforms are still to be in place and unrumpled.” She paused with the door open as Arthur bounced in. “Martin, I do hope you know what you are getting into.”

“Yes,” Martin managed in a strangled tone as Arthur asked, “Getting into what? Douglas, are you hugging Skip?”

Carolyn sent them a mocking smile and left them to explain to a confused Arthur.

“Yes, I am, Arthur,” Douglas said. Martin reached behind and levered Douglas’ hand from under his clothes, stepping away.

“But why? Skip, are you okay? You look really flushed.” Arthur’s normal ebullient expression was beginning to be coloured with upset.

“I, er, I’m fine, Arthur,” Martin said. He drew a deep breath. He was well and truly caught. Well, best to try and get it over with. Douglas was being no help whatsoever, lounging back with the leer of an unrepentant satyr. “Arthur, Douglas and I, er. We’re married, I, I mean, he’s my husband. And I’m his.” Martin tried to ignore Douglas’ snicker and articulate. “We, I, he’s the one I married. But I didn’t know it was Douglas at the time. Do you understand?”

A series of expressions were flickering over Arthur’s face as Martin stammered his wholly inadequate explanation, before Arthur’s face cleared. “You mean - oh. Oh! All this time, you and Douglas? That’s brilliant! Two of my favourite people, in love? Wow! I wish I’d been the one to set you up. I’m so glad, Skip. For a while, I thought Douglas was trying to get you to cheat on your husband, but I guess it’s all right, since he is your husband after all.”

Martin breathed relief. Arthur understood. Would he understand that Douglas’ identity should be kept a secret? _Well, on the other hand, who would believe it_ , Martin thought. He scarcely believed it himself some mornings.

Arthur grinned before realisation bloomed. “But Douglas, why did you have to marry Skip secretly? I remember how Skip thought he was marrying some horrible monster, and then he thought he was married to some god!” Arthur shivered. “Imagine if he’d been married to something like Thunderbird. I don’t want to meet another god if I can help it, though I don’t mind praying. That was scary. Thank goodness he’s got you instead.”

Martin’s mouth open and closed like a fish’s. Douglas murmured, “Yes, just imagine if that had been the case, darling. Marrying some terrible, ancient, dark god.”

Martin shot him a dirty look. After a moment’s thought, he threw in the towel. As long as Arthur knew he and Douglas were together, the details didn’t really matter, did they? “Okay, yes, Arthur, it was a secret at the time, and I did think he, he was a… a _scary, terrible_ god. And I didn’t realise for ages, and I was pretty angry with him when I found out.”

Arthur’s smile dimmed. “Yeah. Wow. I guess I would be, too.”

Douglas interrupted, “But Martin forgave me, and everything is sorted out now. Isn’t it, dear?” He held out a hand. Martin rolled his eyes but took it. Arthur beamed at the sight.

“Congratulations! Again, I guess. Hey, I got to give Skip a kiss after his wedding for luck. How about you, Douglas? It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

Douglas raised his brows but Martin smirked. “You’re right, Arthur, it’s only fair Douglas gets a kiss as well.”

“Oh, why not,” Douglas sighed. “Share the love.” He stood and submitted to Arthur’s crushing hug, though Arthur only bussed his cheek. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur bounced on his toes. “It’s just so brilliant! Though I still don’t get why you had to marry Skip in secret, Douglas. Why didn’t you just ask?”

Douglas opened his mouth for a patented Douglas-story, but Martin beat him to the punch, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “D- Douglas didn’t think he had a chance with me.”

Douglas’ mouth twitched. “That’s… quite true.”

“Thought he was too old,” Martin went on. “You’d never know to look at MJN’s own sky-god, but he’s very insecure about his age.”

Douglas’ voice was strangled as he admitted, “Yes, I am.”

Arthur was all sweet commiseration. “Aw, but Skip’s nice, Douglas! You should have courted him the normal way, I’m sure he would have given you a chance. I mean, you’re clever and fun and really handsome. For an older chap, that is.”

“He’s right, Douglas.” Martin cast him a soulful from under his lashes. “I’d never hold your age against you.”

Douglas swallowed a bark of laughter. “I know better now. It was a shameful thing, tricking you into marriage. I’m deeply sorry for it. But you see, Arthur, I couldn’t let him get away.” Upping the ante, he took both Martin’s hands and drew them to his chest as if he were a pantomime prince and Martin his princess. “It was love at first sight,” he declaimed in his most melting voice. “I had to use all my charm and wit to woo him and win his love. But I finally won, and Martin was good enough to grant me the precious jewel of his regard.”

He noted with pleasure the tell-tale flush creeping up Martin’s neck. It seemed he’d have to repeat the performance in bed some night. Or perhaps in the flight deck when he needed to distract Martin from some tantrum about flight regulations.

Martin's Adam's apple jumped as he swallowed hard but he managed to choke out, “Wha- what he means is, is, I took _pity_ on him and put him out of his misery."

Arthur looked as if all his best fairy tales had come true. “Gosh, that’s brilliant! Love at first sight? That explains our shopping trips together, right, Douglas? You were buying romantic things for Skip! But…” He wrinkled his brow. “Why ever did you tell Skip you were a god? That was silly.”

If Martin caught Douglas' eye now, Douglas was going to laugh out loud like the silly god he was. “Again, my tragic lack of confidence.” Douglas heaved a sigh that shook only slightly. “Martin’s standards are very high. He’s actually quite picky and very discerning. I really wanted to impress him. I mean, look at him, so, so very… Er.”

“Yes?” Martin queried, biting his lip to keep from grinning. “So, so very…?”

Douglas quelled him with a lofty look. “Martin-ish. I just didn’t think this old sky-god had a chance.”

Martin squeezed his hands. “Yes, that’s right, not a chance in Hades. No, really, Douglas, you should have just said something.” The teasing tone was underlain with seriousness.

“Oh, let’s not go into that again, my captain,” Douglas said.

Judging from Arthur’s grin, their bantering had put the cherry on the top of their tale. The door swung open again on Carolyn. “Oh, for the love of the gods, you two! Stop corrupting my boy.”

“As you wish, oh chiefest of CEOs. In just a moment,” Douglas said and bent over Martin's hand. He brushed a kiss over Martin’s knuckles, turned his hand over and touched lips to the sensitive skin of his wrist, noting the quickening pulse at his wrist before releasing him. “All right, captain?

Martin coughed. “Yes. Um. Yes. Uh. I’ll, er, I’ll just go do the walk-around.” He left hurriedly, his shoulder colliding with the door frame in his haste. In spite of Carolyn’s withering stare, Douglas couldn’t help chuckling.

 

 

“...and thus I saw you, and love scorched my heart. Brighter than Helios in his orbit, your flaming hair, more painful than love’s arrow, your sad smile. You came to me, and cooled my mind that burned with my longing.”

Martin made a sound of appreciation that was almost a purr and curled closer to Eros’ side. “Did I look that miserable the day you first saw me?”

Eros trailed fingers up Martin’s forearm, enjoying how goosebumps followed his fingers as he traced them through the fine hairs. “As I recall, your brother Simon was giving you a brotherly bollocking about money. You looked more sulky than anything. But I’m employing poetic licence.”

Martin hummed and rubbed his head against Eros’ shoulder. His grey eyes were lightened to a gorgeous silver in the shafts of late afternoon light that streamed into their bedroom. The draperies were rarely closed now; Martin had had enough of darkness in their lovemaking. Eros was more than happy to indulge him. Seeing Martin’s face lit with the sun as he gasped out his pleasure, lips parted on Eros’ name, was a gift he would never not value.

“What exactly was so special about me anyway?” Martin asked.

“Still underrating your attractions, darling? Mm. This. What’s within.” Eros pressed fingers over Martin’s chest.

“My heart?”

“Only in a figurative sense, though that’s beautiful too. Your essence. Your determination, your passion. Your spark. It was… It is...” Eros trailed off. “Special.”

Martin breathed out against his skin. “Hard to believe out of all the mortals, it had to be me, is all.”

Eros’ lips curved. “Well, I may have mentioned it before, but I think you’re terrific.”

“And fussy and pedantic and picky. And maybe on some days - terrific.”

“Grand. As long as you grasp that, our shared belief in the terrificness of you will get us by.”

Martin was quiet for a while. “Um. I, I’d like to try something.” He sat up and pulled a paper from the drawer of the bedside table. “Read something, I mean. Don’t laugh, I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

“Oh? Are you about to indulge me with a limerick? I admit, the way you -”

Martin pinched him. “No! Just… just… I was thinking of that first poem you left for me on the fridge, the morning after our wedding and I… Well, I wrote this for you.” He took a breath, the paper trembling in his hands. “I - I’d crown you with ivy, and in your, your shining hair the goldenrod place. In darkness you crept into the chambers of my mind, and with fire pure lit the torch within my chest. Eros, come to me and take my hands, for you lift my heart and, and… with love’s wings I can fly.” He buried his face. “Oh, gods, it’s crap, never mind.”

“Never. What did I just say about being terrific?” Eros pulled his red-faced spouse up and kissed him until the ache in his heart at Martin’s stammered words had transformed to sweetness and Martin was pliant against him. “And that’s why I love you, darling.”

 

 

 

“Fuel balanced, check." Douglas looked away from the instrument panel to frown at Carolyn. "Not that I mind Scotland, but why is Laird Leverhulme going to Edinburgh, anyway?”

“He’s the MP for the Highlands and Islands. Some Parliamentary proceeding he needs to attend,” Carolyn replied. With the Laird belted in behind, she was ignoring Martin's instructions for crew to prepare for take-off to indulge in pilot harassment.

“Yes, but why?” Douglas asked.

“Why is he, a Scottish lord going to Scotland? Why is he an MP for his area, why Parliament or why Scotland?” Carolyn asked. “Be clear, Douglas.”

“Why all of it?” Douglas said. “He hates Scotland, he told me so. Says it’s full of rain and dour Scots.”

“Anyone would be dour compared to the laird,” Martin said. “How is it you understand him? I can never catch more than one word in five!”

“You’ve never heard an accent unless you’ve spoken to Greek goatherders,” Douglas said.

“Be that as it may,” Carolyn said. “He’s going to Scotland because he is a frequent -”

“Daft,” Martin and Douglas both chimed together.

“And respected client. Who is also Scottish. Enough of your silly questions, peons. Now, since Arthur’s off being best man for his friends Roddy and Nigel today and I'm the sole crew this jaunt, you know the drill.”

“Don’t touch the service button while you rest your eyes in the back,” Douglas droned. “We know.”

“Can she call us peons? Me, sure, but what about you, Douglas? What with you being a god and all,” Martin said.

“Ha, ha. That joke is getting tedious,” Carolyn said with a sniff. “And I will not be resting my eyes, I will be busy doing vital and important paperwork.”

“Sleeping,” Martin mouthed at Douglas and flinched as Carolyn tweaked his ear. “Hey!”

Carolyn swirled out as Douglas bent over his yoke laughing. “Oh, shut up,” Martin said sulkily. “She’d never dare do that to you.”

“Yes, but that’s because she’s secretly in awe of my dignity and presence, not because she thinks I’m actually a god,” Douglas said. “So refreshing. I do enjoy the insults.”

“Perverse,” Martin flung back. “Check list’s done. Offering’s been given, prayers prayed. Ready, First Officer Richardson?”

Douglas smiled. “Always, Captain Crieff. Golf Tango India to Tower, requesting permission to convey one Flying Scotsman up, owerby and awa.”

“Permission granted, Gulf Tango India. Fling up yer kilts and awa' with ye, you’re clear to go. Over.”

“Thanks, Karl, o’er and oot.”

“Douglas, you know there’s a protocol to use when speaking with ATC,” Martin said, but without much heat. “You’re posing as a professional pilot, you should try and act like one.”

“And yet…” Douglas drawled. He slanted a smile at Martin, who couldn’t help his return grin.

Altitude achieved, Martin sighed in contentment. Douglas watched the slender hands on the yoke and decided the time was right for a distraction.

“Word game?”

Martin lifted a brow. “What’s the bet? This flight’s so short, there’s not even the cheese tray to wager.”

“A haggis lunch when we land?” Douglas suggested.

“Haggis!” Martin wrinkled his nose. “That’s not a bet, that’s a dare!”

“All right. Loser gets the haggis. Alliterative offerings to gods at airports.”

“Oh! Erm.” Martin frowned.

“I offered ragi rava dosa to Rama at Rajiv Ghandi Airport,” Douglas offered.

“Hang on, let me think! Er… Thor. Er, I offered toast to Thor at Tromsø Airport.”

“Toast, really, Martin?”

“It’s bread, isn’t it? It’s a proper offering!”

“Fine. I offered yams to Ymir at Yverdons-les-bain.”

“You’ve been prepping for this,” Martin accused. “This isn’t fair!”

“Consider my ancient self and the immortals I’ve known. Certainly I have an advantage, but I’m not cheating.” Douglas couldn’t contain his smile as Martin sputtered. Oh, how he loved his indignant darling.

“I offered, I offered….plums to Pothos at Paros Airport!” Martin snapped.

“Oh, nasty,” Douglas said with appreciation. “Why does he get a mention and not your dear husband?”

“Because I can’t think of a food that involves sex bits that starts with the letter ‘e’,” Martin retorted. “And because my dear husband wants me to choke down Scottish offal.”

“Be fair, there’s oatmeal involved in haggis. I offered ikura to Izanagi at Iceland.”

“Ha! There’s no airport by that name!” Martin crowed. “I offered ikura to Izanagi at, at… Izunami Airport!”

“Well done. Sir has an astonishing grasp of airports. I see all the hours on Flight Sim have paid dividends,” Douglas said.

Martin looked pleased with himself. “We’re probably about even, then. Did you do that on purpose?”

“Perish the thought.” He had.

Martin yawned and worked his jaw.

“How’s the inner ear?” Douglas asked. “Still troubling you?”

“It’s fine, perfectly air-worthy.”

“I do feel bad about yesterday.”

“No, no, I loved it!” Martin’s face lit up. “Finally, I got to fly with you! Well, we fly together a lot but…” His hands danced and wove through the air. “ _Flying_ flying! With wings!”

“Yes,” Douglas agreed. “With wings. Though I don’t need them to fly, understand. It’s just for the look of the thing. And because you expect them.” He drank in the contented glow of Martin’s spark. Eros was also part of that glow now. The blessings of Martin, that he could contain not one great passion in that slender frame, but two - love for flying and love for his husband. He’d been a fool to ever be jealous. Douglas smiled.

Martin sighed with happiness. “I want to do it again. As soon as we can. Just…”

“Fewer loops. Or larger ones?” Douglas suggested. “It’d be even better if we got your ear problem fixed. I wonder if Panacea could do it.”

Martin grimaced. “I can smell the peanut butter already. If she always does her work using paste, I don’t want her in my ear.”

“Just an idea.”

“Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“For you, darling? The sky’s the limit.”

Martin flashed him a grin. “Love you, too. Eggs for Eri at Erinagh Aerodrome.”

“Ah, but that’s the modern pronunciation. It should be, ‘eggs for Ériu at Erinagh.’ Or Enniskillen.”

“You can’t just steal mine by correcting my pronunciation, that wasn’t part of the rules!” Martin began to flush. “You always try something like this!”

“But, darling,” Douglas purred.

“Darling nothing! No additions to the rules!” Martin stated.

Douglas heaved a dramatic sigh. He was thoroughly enjoying this, and he knew that Martin secretly did as well. “All right, yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.” Douglas saw the quiver in the corner of Martin’s mouth, though he steadfastly faced forward, back ramrod straight. He turned his own face to the view outside, noting that the forecasted clouds had dissipated. “My captain.”

“Good.”

And they flew into the clear, blue skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a blog post on the writing of the fic and background notes on Tumblr [ here ](http://jessamygriffin.tumblr.com/post/94541604582/stupid-writer-nerd-things-for-flying-blind) , if anyone is interested in that kind of thing.  
> That is where you can find out about Martin and Douglas' actual house, how to properly transport 'mums, why Laird Leverhulme, and how our winged duo flew into Love. No, really, they did, check the chapter place name titles. L.O.V.E. Yes, yes, I am a sentimental nerd, thanks.
> 
> My first Cabin Pressure fic. Thanks for reading! Any comments or questions are appreciated - likewise if there's some error somewhere, let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I meant the pairing as Douglas/Martin all along, but for plot spoiler reasons couldn't use it as a tag. If you think a lengthy AU fic is up their alleys, please pass this one along to the Marlas shippers. Thanks!


End file.
